


Dogs of War

by xCrimsonxBlackxBloodx



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Violence, Drama, Ed Swears, Gore, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mystery, Team as Family, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2019-08-02 11:44:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16304576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xCrimsonxBlackxBloodx/pseuds/xCrimsonxBlackxBloodx
Summary: With all the conflict and tension between Amestris and Aerugo, it was inevitable that a war would break loose. Mustang, though, had always thought that he would be able to keep his young prodigy away from such a nightmarish ordeal.





	1. Don’t Shoot the Messenger. (You might need him later.)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no RenkinJutsushi belongs to Arakawa-san. I just borrow the characters from time to time and hope that I don’t break them… too much.

> _…While the abilities of chimaeras vary greatly in accordance with the animal they are fused with, the ordinary body of the chimaera is proven to “have a direct relation to the percentage of the sizes of the two original creatures which had birthed one” [Borch,_ De ortu et progressu Chemiae _, 1668]. As a result, large and small animals fused together generally exhibit more characteristics of the larger specimen. This is not a determined fact, for there have been few exceptions to this, apparent when one specimen is of much higher intelligence than the other…_
> 
> —Excerpt from _Chapter Two: General Anatomy_ from the tome _A Study of Chimaerism and General Characteristics Thereof_ , by Johan August Strindburg, 1898.
> 
> _...Though never attempted for ethical reasons, the concept of human-animal chimaeras has been a source of much speculation for many decades. Though a delicate and perilous transmutation even in theory, any animal fused with a human being would, by necessity, be one of remarkably low reasoning and cognitive skill; this is the only guaranteed method for the human involved to retain their own mental processes._
> 
> _However, according to the writings of Guiseppe Balsamo, “one may remain in control of their emotions and desires no matter how great the sway of another mind may be, if their own determination and will is great enough.” Alissandro Cagliostro, an alchemist and physicist of the last century, wrote in his notes that he could find no evidence to refute these findings, and furthered them with his own research. His conclusion: “The human mind is an ill-understood tool far more powerful than any human of this age can understand. It is highly possible that a person of a strong enough will would, hypothetically speaking, be able to assert dominance over any beasts he has been fused with, for only man understands the true mannerisms of society.”_
> 
> —Excerpt from _Chapter Thirteen: Hypotheses of Human-based Chimaeras_ from the tome _A Study of Chimaerism and General Characteristics Thereof_ , by Johan August Strindburg, 1898.
> 
>  
> 
> _…While the notion of human chimaeras is a theoretical one, several sources agree that … there is no reason why a human chimaera would not have the ability to use alchemy, given that the transmutation which caused them to become a chimaera was a proper success. Because the ability comes from the brain’s own perceptive abilities, any human chimaera with the same cognitive skills as a proper human being should, theoretically, be able to perform the art._
> 
> —Excerpt _from Chapter Fourteen: Human-based Chimaeras and Alchemy_ from the tome _A Study of Chimaerism and General Characteristics Thereof_ , by Johan August Strindburg, 1898.
> 
>  

* * *

 

The early spring air was crisp, and the winds ruffled at Master Sergeant Kain Fuery’s dark hair as he stepped out of a black, military-issued vehicle and tromped up the stairs of Central’s Second National Library. As a communications officer, he had always expected to spend much of his career relaying messages and reports between soldiers and between commands. He had also expected for those messages to be relayed over one of the many electronic means—telephone, telegraph, radio, or something yet to be invented.

Well, the military was nothing if not full of the unexpected, he thought as he wrapped gloved fingers around the wrought iron handle decorating the library’s main door. At least he could be sure that his work would never get boring.

A librarian glanced up from her desk as the main doors clicked shut. She offered a smile of welcome, but her eyes were already scanning him, sliding past his proudly-pressed blue uniform and over the gold cord that identified him as an officer. “If you’re not a State Alchemist,” she said after a moment, “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave. I’m sure you know that this library is only accessible by alchemists who’ve passed the qualification exams.”

“I know,” Fuery assured her quickly, already reaching into a pocket of his royal blue trousers. He pulled out a folded sheet, stamped with the military’s letterhead, and presented it to the woman. “I’m here under Colo— _General_ Mustang’s orders. He wants me to get the Fullmetal Alchemist.”

The librarian laughed as she reviewed the letter. “Good luck in getting him to leave. Whatever he and his brother are working on must be important. I think they’ve been here more than I have this past week.”

She excused herself, explaining that she had to call Mustang’s office to confirm the orders, leaving the bespectacled man to hope that he wouldn’t be the target of the famous Elric temper. Why couldn’t have his commanding officer sent someone— _anyone—_ else?

The phone call took only a moment, and then Fuery was making his way up plush carpeted stairs to the library’s second floor. The fourth door on the left was made of rosewood, and it stung his knuckles when he knocked.

“Ed? Al?” He called for good measure. Mustang wouldn’t want to be left waiting for any longer than needed, he was sure; it was one reason why a simple phone call to the library hadn’t been an option.

Some movement sounded from within, and the familiar clanking of armour reached his ears before the door swung open on well-oiled hinges. Alphonse peered down at him for just a moment then stepped back, waving a glove-hand in admittance. “Master Sergeant Fuery!” He exclaimed, and his metallic voice revealed the surprise that his helmet couldn’t. “We weren’t expecting anyone to come by. Is there anything we can help you with?”

Though he included his elder brother in the offer, Edward himself seemed completely oblivious to the company. A cracked old tome—something about chimaeras, if the title was anything to go by—nearly shielded his whole head from Fuery’s view, leaving only that ridiculous cowlick to poke up from between the cracked and yellowing pages. A left hand scribbled furiously across a nearby notebook. A faint mutter, sounding suspiciously like “useless fucking rodents,” met the master sergeant’s ears before a few lines were crossed out.

“Well,” he began, turning back to the younger Elric, “the, uh Gen—Colo … Mustang needs to talk to Ed. It’s urgent.”

“Urgent?” Al stared at the short man for just a moment. Then his broad shoulders slumped, and a weary sigh ring from beneath his chest plate. “But Brother didn’t ruin anything on his last assignment. What’s so important that Colonel Mustang needs to see him right now?”

“Uh…” Fuery tried not to squirm under Alphonse’s pale gaze. It really wasn’t up to him to tell the boy about the latest frenetic orders currently being passed about Central HQ. “I—just… My orders are just to get Ed and bring him back to HQ, Al.”

“Oh, of course. I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.”

It felt so wrong to lie to the boy, even if it was just a lie of omission. Fuery’s stomach curdled. Really, though, how could he tell the younger Elric the truth…? “Y-yeah. I’m sure you will, too.”

Al offered him a half-laugh, probably meant more to comfort him that anything, and turned to his older brother. Heavy leather hands reached forward, snagging the tome and jerking it out of Edward’s grip, revealing the subject of Fuery’s search. Two golden eyes watched the book for a moment, peering up from between a veil of thick blond bangs as though Edward couldn’t quite figure out how it had somehow managed to levitate so far beyond his reach.

Then the gaze narrowed and the eyes travelled along an arm of dull steel.

“What the hell, Al!” Edward jumped out of his seat and mismatched hands balled into fists. “I was using that! Give it back—”

So boldly demonstrating such a different in height, Fuery knew, was something that only Edward’s beloved little brother could get away with, and the heaviness of his stomach only doubled as he thought of the dark shadows hanging over Central HQ, of the rumours that smeared themselves like oil over the whitewashed walls, of the transmissions that hissed over the airwaves…

He couldn’t remember a single time where the two brothers had ever been separated, but now—

“Master Sergeant Fuery is here, brother,” Alphonse began, and Fuery jumped away from his grim train of thought. The younger brother’s voice, far louder than necessary, was filled with an amount of patience that could only be harnessed from years of managing ill-tempered brothers. “He says that—”

But Edward had already turned to fix the bespectacled man with a glare of molten gold. “We’re busy. Go away.”

“I wish I could, Ed,” he replied, quite honestly. “But Mustang needs to see you—”

“And he knows how busy we are, dammit! I already told him about the lead we’re following so that he wouldn’t try to do something like this—”

“Then maybe there’s actually an important reason why he needs to talk to you,” Alphonse interjected. He placed a hand on Edward’s left shoulder as though the simple action could physically restrain his older brother’s temper.

The brothers met each other’s eyes squarely, and Fuery watched as the two engaged in a silent conversation of pointed looks and the occasional sneer. Then, with a defeated sigh, Edward dropped his glower onto the hastily scribbled notes still on the table and balled a hand into a fist. “Fine,” he muttered, “I’ll go, but Mustang’d better be quick about what he wants. He _knows_ we’re busy. You stay here, Al, and keep working, okay?”

Fuery said nothing as the Fullmetal Alchemist gathered his telltale red jacket, threw it over his shoulders, and strode out of the room with his thick blond braid swinging behind him.

* * *

 

Edward stared at the road at it glided past, watched through sullen eyes as people hurried by with gifts and bags clutched in their hands, and glared at the plain brick buildings and colourful awnings that bugled the names of cafés and stores in bold blocks letters. Out of all the people in Central—hell, out of all the people in _Amestris_ —why did Mustang have to send for _him_? The smug bastard had plenty of alchemists under his thumb, and he knew that the brothers were following the strongest lead they’d had in a while, so why did he have to get in the way now?

Beside him, Fuery fidgeted, wiping his glasses on a sleeve before drumming his fingers on the car’s armrest, on his knee… really, anything he could think to drum them against. Edward tried to remember the last time he saw the dark-haired master sergeant this nervous. He couldn’t.

“What’s the deal, anyway?” He asked suddenly, voice cutting above the faint noises of road and engine. “Why does the bastard Colonel need to talk to me so badly that he’s got you playing messenger?”

The fingers paused in their drumming, and he watched Fuery’s Adam’s apple bob. “I, uh… I don’t know exactly what they are, but there are orders coming out for a bunch of the State Alchemists. I guess that he needs to talk to you about that.”

“What? And he couldn’t just wait for me to report in on Monday like he told me to?” There was more to it than what Fuery was saying, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to walk into a meeting with Mustang without knowing as much as he could.

“This is just how the military works sometimes.”

“So you’re not going to tell me anything, then,” he snapped out, turning in his seat to fix his glare on the man.

Fuery squirmed in his seat, then shrugged a shoulder.

The silence grated at Edward’s nerves. “C’mon, Fuery, you’ve got to know something. Tell me already.”

Their eyes met. Edward felt his jaw muscles tightened. He’d get Fuery to say something even if he had to beat it out of him… Then Fuery sighed and dropped his gaze. He pulled his glasses from his face, hands quick and fingers jerky as he wiped them again. “Look, Ed,” he said finally. “I just think that you should hear about everything from Mustang is all. He knows more than I do about it, anyway.”

He returned his glasses to his face and looked away, bringing his gaze out of the car’s window.

Edward, meanwhile, stared at the back of Fuery’s head. When had the master sergeant—still young enough to show up to work with pimples decorating his face on occasion—become so old?

The vehicle squeaked to a halt before Central HQ’s broad white walls and, as his eyes scanned the oversized entryway and board sidewalks, the first slick of disquiet, black and heavy like oil, began to pour into his stomach. It was normal to have a few guards stationed at the entrance, but… had he ever seen this same of them? And, surely, they’d never looked this grim before…

Without a word, he threw open the car door and pulled himself from the vehicle. A squad of footsoldiers, rifles slung over their shoulders, wouldn’t even let him through the northern gate until he flashed his silver pocket watch in their direction. But then he and Fuery were travelling through the gates, tromping across the expansive grounds and up well-worn garnet steps.

It  was only a matter of moments until they stopped a second time before the main building, a monstrosity of seven storeys and white stone that Edward decided he was far too used to seeing. More foot soldiers wanted proof of his reason for being here, and the opened the main doors for him only as his watch disappeared back into his pocket.

The steady drip of discomfort became something more insistent, and his stomach tightened itself in protest. Seriously, what was going on that required such tight security?

He flashed his silver pocket watch to the guard in the grand atrium, more for show this time than anything, and began to climb the main staircase that would lead him to Mustang’s office. Behind him, Fuery’s feet pounded against the tile floors as he hurried to keep up.

The main office that held the desks and documents used by Mustang’s officers was… cold, Edward realized upon stepping into the room. Not in temperature, since Breda’s uniform jacket was unclasped and Havoc’s was draped across the back of his chair. But the thick, heavy air—almost tangible in the way that it weighed down on his shoulders—brought a chill to the fingers of his left hand. Havoc wasn’t smoking, Breda wasn’t bantering with Falman, and Hawkeye wasn’t glaring at the lot of them. Instead, they worked efficiently and silently, barely even glancing up as he walked past and unceremoniously threw open the doors to Mustang’s personal office.

Mustang himself was hunched over his oversized desk, studying a document with more focus than Edward had ever seen from the man. He shifted slightly, and the stars and stripes adorning his shoulders caught the early spring light that filtered in from a nearby window. General’s stripes. What the hell?

“Who the hell thought it’d be a good idea to make _you_ a general?” He growled as he strode toward the man’s desk. The hairs at the nape of his neck stood on end. Everything was wrong. Just what the hell was happening?

A sigh brushed over Mustang’s lips as he dropped the sheaf of papers onto his desk. His dark eyes scrutinized the young man before him before a cocky smirk fixed itself onto his face. “Someone who’s finally recognized my talent and my value to the Amestrian military, Fullmetal,” he replied, then brought his eyes somewhere over the blond’s right shoulder. “Good job in collecting him, Fuery. Get the others, please.”

“Of course, sir.”

Edward turned in time to see the heavy oak doors click shut. He rounded on Mustang again. “What’s so important that you need to drag me away from the library like that?”

“This.” The newly-minted General pulled an envelope from beneath a paperweight and offered it to him.

Wordlessly, he accepted it. _Major Edward Elric, Fullmetal Alchemist (Battle Grade)_ was stamped across the front. The Fuhrer’s personal seal decorated the back. A questioning noise bubbled up from his throat, unbidden, and he broke the wax seal and read the letter within.

His eyes widened as he scanned the words once, then twice. This was a joke, right?

This had to be a joke.

“What the…?” He looked up to Mustang for confirmation. The smirk still plastered across the man’s face almost looked like a grimace now, and those dark eyes held none of the smug humour he was so used to seeing.

The man’s voice was cold as ice, and just as brittle, when he spoke. “As the letter states, you’re to remain in Central for the time being. Given your situation, I’d strongly suggest that you call your mechanic and have her travel here to inspect your automail before we ship out.

A thousand half-thoughts beat themselves against the forefront of his mind like frantic moths. His automail—? But—and call Winry—ship out— _what_? “But this has got to be some mist—”

The door opened behind him. Footfalls echoed off the office’s whitewashed walls, effectively cutting him off, as Mustang’s officers presented themselves. Five pairs of heavy military boots fell into line before their commanding officer, sandwiching the young alchemist between two sets of blue-clad shoulders.

“You asked for us, sir?” It was Hawkeye who spoke up. Her hand touched her forehead in a crisp salute. The rest of the team quickly followed suit, though Edward just frowned and tightened his grip on the letter.

Mustang nodded. “It’s official,” he told them. “Intelligence has confirmed that Aerugonian troops have been gathering near our borders, and they won’t withdraw. The Fuhrer’s ordered our own soldiers to mobilize.”

Standing beside Havoc, Edward couldn’t help but notice the taller blond bite down on the unlit cigarette clamped between his teeth. At the end of the line, Fuery swallowed audibly. A faint metallic whine filled the air, and he realized that his right hand was gripped into such a tight fist the servos were protesting.

Mustang ignored it all, his dark eyes meeting each of theirs as he said their name. “First Lieutenant Hawkeye—”

The woman’s sternly pinned hair bobbed once as she offered him a slight bow.

“—Second Lieutenant Havoc—”

“Yeah.”

“—Second Lieutenant Breda—”

Rotund Breda nodded and stood a little taller, his shock of auburn hair catching the light.

 “—Master Sergeant Fuery—”

Fuery touched his hand to his brow with a shaking hand.

“—Warrant Officer Falman—”

“Yes, sir.” The crow’s feet around the older man’s eyes deepened as he offered his own salute.

Mustang paused for a moment, dark eyes unreadable as he met Edward’s own. Then he went on. “… Major Elric.”

The blond’s jaw tightened and his bright, fiery eyes narrowed. Do your worst, bastard, he dared the man silently.

“Pack your bags and shine your shoes. We’re going to war.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random tid-bits of information:  
> 1) Borch, De ortu et progressu Chemiae: Written in 1668 by Ole Borch, a Danish scientist, physician, grammarian and poet. He is also thought to have been an alchemist.  
> 2) Guiseppe Balsamo/Alessandro Cagliostro (1743-1795): Famous alchemist and magician. Yes, this was the same person.  
> 3) Johan August Strindburg (1849-1912): A Swedish playwright and writer. Also a painter, poet, photographer and alchemist. He wrote Inferno, an autobiographical novel that explores his fixation with alchemy, as well as other obsessions.


	2. The Grass Is Always Greener. (When Soldiers Haven’t Stamped All Over It.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no RenkinJutsushi belongs to Arakawa-san. I just borrow the characters from time to time and hope that I don’t break them… too much.

> _Major Edward Elric, Fullmetal Alchemist (Battle Grade),_
> 
> _As an officer of the Amestrian military, you have been hereby ordered by his Excellency the Fuhrer King Bradley to answer the call for active, wartime duty against the country of Aerugo._
> 
> _You will present yourself before Brigadier General Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist, no later than twelve hundred hours on the twenty-first of March, where you will remain stationed under his command until further notice from the State._
> 
> _You will be required to remain in Central following this time, and will be deployed on the twenty-fifth of March at ten hundred hours._
> 
> _Truly,_
> 
> _F.F. Storch_
> 
> _Secretary to his Excellency the Fuhrer_
> 
> —Office of the Fuhrer to Major E. Elric. March 19, 1915.

* * *

 

The train’s steady clacking drummed away into white noise as the hours, each as dull and unexciting as the last, passed them by. Carriages swayed, lulling many a person to sleep—or at the very least into a stupor that left them completely oblivious to the world blurring around them. Seeing the sleepy, monotonous atmosphere of the train’s compartments, one would not think much of the many people within it.

Or rather, one would not have thought much of the train and its passengers had the Amestrian military’s insignia—a pale leocampus rampant superimposed upon a dusty green field—not decorated the engine and had the passengers within not sported the royal blue of Amestris’ military. As it was, children and adults alike stopped to watch the train pass by, a slithering snake that winked in the midspring sunlight and coughed soot into the air.

As they sped past steel tracks and curved through fields, wide eyes followed their progress while tight mouths offered darkly muttered words to companions. Although the youngest observers could only question why they were seeing such an occurrence, the elders could not help but recall exactly why they were seeing this take place.

After all, the news splashed over the newspapers and heralded from the radios, fuelled by wild rumours and banners slathered in propaganda. Once again, the nation of Amestris was going to war.

The only thing unique about this war was that she was not its instigator.

And so, the train raced by, flying past the trees and fields, hills and streams, cities and villages that these hundreds upon hundreds of blue-clad soldiers had been deployed to protect.

The newly minted Brigadier General Roy Mustang dragged his eyes away from the verdant fields they travelled past, and from the blue-grey mountains that crouched along the horizon. He shot a glance around the carriage with sharp black eyes and frowned. The sense of relaxation and ease that enveloped the train was as false as the comfort it provided, as he well knew, and the discomfort of it crawled along his shoulder blades.  

At least, he thought, he wasn’t the only to have these thoughts.

He watched as the blond, blue-eyed Jean Havoc began and finished a whole package of cigarettes, completely oblivious as to how many he had actually chewed thre. Falman, the oldest among them with his greying hair and crow’s feet, looked even older than he should have, and he had not turned the page of the book in his hands for at least ten minutes. Red-haired Breda and the much younger Fuery were still battling over a chess board, but it was clear they were not really concentrating on the game resting between them. Riza Hawkeye, with her blond hair clipped into its customary bun, was unnecessarily polishing her gun. And Edward…

As troubled as he was with the whole situation, it was the normally loud young man who worried him the most.

Many had argued that the Fullmetal Alchemist, sixteen as of just last month, was too young to partake in the bloody hell that was war, the Flame Alchemist chief among them. As it stood, though, the military saw Edward as a skilled, strong dog of the military before it saw him as a young man who was the only family left to his even younger brother; an invaluable human weapon before a scared, apprehensive teen.

He turned his eyes to Edward. The blond had pulled a small, well-worn notebook from his pocket some hours ago. Currently, those fiery golden eyes were glaring at one of the pages with such vehemence that, idly, Mustang couldn’t help but wonder what it had done to cause offence.

The man let his gaze drift over his youngest subordinate, pushed away the faint shock he felt of actually seeing Edward Elric don a proper military uniform—complete with a Major’s stripes decorating the epaulets—to scrutinize the alchemist himself.

Fullmetal worked hard to disguise whatever unease he felt about being sent to the front lines, but it still leaked out in little signs—he would pick absently at the heavy wool sleeve covering his prosthetic right arm or tap a finger against his metal left leg, run a hand through his long bangs or shift and twist in his seat until the rustling of cloth and creak of metal joints set the general’s teeth on edge.

Fullmeta’s right hand twisted, tightened into a fist, and the squeal of metal on metal lanced through the carriage’s stuffy air, faint but still sharp enough to set aflame some of his own anxieties, twist them into annoyance until Mustang just wanted to snap at him to sit still and act like an adult for once in his life.

It was a close thing, but he managed to swallow the words. After all, Edward was not an adult yet, no matter how often he insisted otherwise, and did Mustang himself not already know how frightening it was to head off to battle?

 

* * *

 

Determinedly, Edward kept his eyes fixed on the complicated equations and dizzying transmutation circles laid out before him. He knew that he could get the transmutation to work if he could find some sort of amplifier—and one that wasn’t a Philosopher’s Stone, thank you very much—to grant him enough alchemical energy to avoid killing himself in the process.

If he could have access to the libraries back in Central, it would be a lot easier. And, he added furiously as the fine hairs at the nape of his neck stood up, if only the bastard would stop _watching_ him.

In the row of seats beside him, Hawkeye exchanged a few words with Fuery. Havoc, with a weak cough of laughter, added in his own two cenz. Above his head, the yellow carriage lights flickered on with a buzz. Somewhere at the far end of the carriage, a soldier he didn’t know snored loudly.

He hunkered down further into the hard wooden seat and ignored them all.

If he’d been willing to admit it to himself, he would have realized nearly an hour ago that he’d completely forgotten exactly what he was trying to accomplish with the array, but if nothing else, it made him look busy and provided a passable distraction from the thoughts tumbling around the back of his skull. It saved him from thinking of the way his stomach had twisted when he told his little brother that he and the rest of Mustang’s crew were being sent to the southern border, and kept him from recalling the sniffles that had filtered through the telephone when he’s called Winry…

He glared at the messy notes before him and scrubbed at his face with a gloved hand. There just had to be a way to sort out that transmutation…

Somewhere before him, he heard the fabric of Mustang’s cavalry cape rustle as the man climbed to his feet. “Senior officers,” he called out, and his deep voice sounded above the monotonous clacking of steel rails and the hum of idle chatter, “to me, please.”

The response was immediate. Half of the soldiers—those with at least lieutenant’s stripes adorning their shoulders—set aside whatever they were occupying themselves with and made their way to the dark-haired general; the remaining blue-clad men and women filed out of the compartment without another word. With an exaggerated sigh, Edward snapped his notebook shut and stuffed it in the pocket of his heavy wool trousers.

Hawkeye had procured a map out of one of the overhead compartments and was fastening it to the nearest wall with quick hands, and Edward did his best to study it from between the shoulders of the throng of officers crowding around it.

Bold black lines snaked across the map of Amestris’ south-western region, marking where the national border had been firmly established until just a couple of weeks ago. The Tevere River wound through the area in a blue streak, weaving south across Amestrian land, twisting east to follow the border before curling deep into Aerugonian territory. Meanwhile, the Sibillini Range—all hills, if he remembered correctly, and none of them more than a thousand metres tall—stamped its way south and west. He watched as Mustang added a few marks to the map, three closer to the border and one further north, along the Tevere, before stepping away and turning to the sea of bodies before him.

“As you all know by now, the Aerugonians have been gathering forces along our borders for two weeks now,” the General began, voice cutting through the carriage. “Intelligence teams report that there were more than sixty thousand men in position along our borders as of three days ago, and just as many being deployed to bolster the troops already there. Accounts from our reconnaissance teams claim nearly thirty thousand men are already stationed on Amestris’ western border, and more are being sent to bolter them as well.”

A few heads nodded. They’d been briefed about this back in Central, or else they’d heard it from the loose lips of their fellow soldiers.

 “For those of you who haven’t found the time to brush up on your Amestrian geography—” dark eyes darted toward Edward, who countered with a glare of his own “—the district we’re protecting is at the base of the Sibillini Range. General Hakuro, who’ll be heading operations for the entire south-western region, expects that we’ll see a fair bit of action there. It’s an agricultural centre, after all, and Intelligence believes that the Aerugonians will try to stop farming in the area if they can.

“The command we’ve been sent to establish—very originally named the South-Western Passage Command—” a faint bubble of laughter rose up; the military wasn’t known for their creative names “—is going to be set up as a waystation for soldiers travelling to other commands in south-western Amestris. It’ll also help to plug a hole in our defences and act as a district command to oversee the Plains, Deep Southern, and Rivers Outposts.”

The dark-haired man droned on, voice charismatic and quite possibly alluring to anyone who did not know him, explaining defensive plans and geographical aspects of their district, all the while boosting morale and encouraging the officers before him with sickening ease. It was all Edward could do not to roll his eyes. Surely there was a better way to share all this information without having to—

“Well, Fullmetal?”

The blond alchemist blinked. At some point, several sets of eyes had turned to look at him. “What?”

Somewhere, someone coughed. The look Mustang fixed upon him was venomous.

“I’m glad to see that I’m able to keep your attention, as short as it is.” The man commented, voice dry as sand. He ignored the fiery glare that accompanied the word ‘short.’ “As I was saying, we only have three days to set in place the most important sections of the command, since additional troops will start making their ways to us after those three days are up. I’ll be expecting you and the Blacklung Alchemist to work with the engineers to get as much set up as possible during those three days.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Edward caught sight of a silver chain. The man who carried it wore his greasy hair brushed back from his face so that it framed grey eyes and a beaklike nose. Noticing the other alchemist’s scrutiny, Blacklung sent him a wink and a smirk.

Edward tried not to sneer as he turned his attention to his commanding officer once more.

“Blacklung has already assured me that he’s more than up to the task,” Mustang told him. If he noticed the exchange, he ignored it. “What about you, Fullmetal?”

He met the man’s sharp gaze with a grin that dared him to do his worst. “Won’t be a problem.”

Late the next morning, when they disembarked from the train and loaded up into the largest convoy of covered personnel carriers Edward had ever seen, he couldn’t help wonder at his own bravado.

The area itself was scenic enough, he supposed, frowning at nothing in particular as the trucks turned south and plodded along a rocky dirt road. With the Sibillini hills sporting wide-branched stone pines and broad-leafed oaks to the west, and the Tevere River curling over limestone beds to the east, it seemed like one of the vacation places Teacher would talk about from time to time.

The weather itself, though, was what he had a problem with. The humid air was already far too warm—didn’t it know that it was still spring?—and the metal in his scarred shoulder and knee prickled uncomfortably.

With a sigh, he leaned back in an attempt to make himself more comfortable, then yawned hugely, closing his eyes against bright sunlight shining through the back of the canvas-covered truck. Idly, he wished that time would pass by more quickly. Travelling really could be a pain in the ass sometimes.

And, indeed, time did just that.

The next thing he knew, Havoc was shaking him awake, talking in a gruff voice that revealed the second lieutenant had also just been woken. “C’mon, Chief, we’re here. Time to start setting up.”

“Already?” He asked. But the sun had moved far to the east and the convoy of vehicles had come to a stop. The place looked no different than the rest of the green, rolling landscape they’d driven by.

Like scurrying insects, men and women, some still sporting their heavy blue uniform jackets but most without, were hurrying to unload the equipment that had been brought along with them— the bare minimum to cater to an outpost of a thousand soldiers. Someone was busy measuring out the large area where walls would soon be erected to protect their command; ten other soldiers, in pairs, were checking the exact depth of the Tevere River to see if it could be used as a defence. Another group was working to find the best place to build a bridge.

It was odd, really. All the action and tasks seemed like nothing more than a standard training exercise that the military would insist upon every year or so. But then he saw the guard patrols—three squads of ten men each, one with a vehicle sporting a mounted, automatic gun, all heavily armed, and it hit home.

He was sixteen. He was a dog of the Amestrian military. He was in a war.

Havoc was still talking, though, offering a distraction Edward didn’t realize he was grateful for. “General Mustang wants to talk to you about the perimeter walls, by the way. He’s over by where they’re stocking the munitions supplies.”

Following the man’s pointing finger, he found the Flame Alchemist’s familiar form, flanked by Lieutenant Hawkeye and two other officers that Edward did not recognize. Muttering quietly about “lazy bastard colonels who can’t be bothered to get their hands dirty and work as hard as everyone else,” he quickly fixed the mussed ponytail his hair had become and made his way over to his commanding officer.

After a few quick words from Mustang, he was paired with one of the military engineers not on bridge building duty. With her help and a few modifications to an array he knew well, the young alchemist was able to erect the command’s perimeter walls—an absolute beast of a transmutation that resulted in a curtain wall ten meters tall and encompassing a space of more than a square kilometer.

A brief repose and a hasty lunch allowed him to regain some of the energy he had lost during the large scale transmutation, then he was set to add to the defences by forming a low wall and gully combination, to serve as a shelter for their soldiers from bullets should it be needed. As soon as he was done, dripping sweat and trembling at the knees, more soldiers appeared to lay out an impressive amount of barbed wire over the top of the low wall.

With all the defences, and with more to come, enemy soldiers would have a difficult time overrunning them.

The day could be counted in sweat, scrapes, sore backs, and sunburn, but slowly, a command emerged. As the sun turned red and slipped below the horizon, wells were drilled, equipment put away, sentries established along the perimeter wall, trucks parked, communications equipment set up, and necessary defences laid out.

Too exhausted to contemplate the fact that his temporary sleeping tent was shared with Mustang, Havoc, Breda, Falman and Fuery, and too tired to wonder why men of such different ranks were even sharing a tent, Edward stumbled into the canvas shelter. With a sigh, he pulled off his heavy black boots and shrugged off his jacket—he would, he promised himself, put it away tomorrow. That done, he collapsed onto the small cot, carelessly wrapping himself in a heavy wool blanket before curling up without a further thought. He was already asleep and snoring lightly when Mustang and Fuery walked in some five minutes later.

As a result, he never did find out it was his commanding officer who picked up his jacket for him and, with a frown, folded it carefully and placed it on top of his trunk. Nor did Edward ever discover it was Mustang who, upon taking note of the rapidly falling temperature, took a moment to throw an extra blanket over his shoulders.

Briefly, he wondered if it was simply the shock of actually seeing Edward Elric don a proper military uniform—complete with a Major’s stripes decorating the shoulders—that had him so disconcerted. But no; he could not deny the vacant gaze in those normally piercing golden eyes any more than he could ignore the defeated slouch that the young man had adopted. That long braid, so familiar it had become one of the blond’s trademarks, had surrendered to a similarly functional ponytail, pulled high and out of the way by mismatched hands of scarred flesh and the finest grade of automail steel.

He scrubbed furiously at his tingling shoulder and turned his eyes back towards the wooden interior of the flatbed. Bored faces blinked slowly back at him, and he noted with some faint amusement that a surprising number of the soldiers had already fallen asleep, soothed by the gentle rocking and the drone of the engines. Havoc was snoring softly, his head bobbing against his chest with the truck’s swaying movements; another soldier, a second lieutenant by the name of Caddock, was leaning heavily on the blond man’s shoulder, drooling lightly. The Blacklung Alchemist was slouched heavily on the uncomfortable benches; his arms and legs were crossed, and his eyes were closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random tid-bits of information:  
> 1) Tevere River: Known as the Tiber River in English, this river runs through central Italy. Rome was founded on its banks.  
> 2) Sibillini Range: In real life, it’s known as the Sibillini Mountains. They’re found in central Italy and helped create the country’s famous boot shape.


	3. A Cat May Look at a King. (But There’s Still no Point in Meowing at Him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no RenkinJutsushi belongs to Arakawa-san. I just borrow the characters from time to time and hope that I don’t break them… too much.

> _Dear Al,_
> 
> _You were right—the weather here is crap. It’s way too warm during the day, and at night, the wind howls right down the hillside. It gets so cold sometimes that we might as well be in Drachma. Plus, while it doesn’t rain often, it absolutely pours when it does, and the air gets so humid afterward it’s like trying to breathe underwater._
> 
> _The only one who doesn’t complain about any of this is the idiot General. People say it’s because he doesn’t want to seem unbecoming, but I think it’s just because, like I said, it doesn’t rain very often, so no one can call him useless._
> 
> _I think I’m going to go and ask him what he would have done if we had been sent north instead._
> 
> _He just told me to shut up, stop being a smart ass, and finish my letter._
> 
> _Mustang’s been trying to make me “live up to my rank” (his words), so I have to do a lot of officer duties. He says that it’s important for me to understand logistics and all that, but I think he’s doing it because he’s a lazy bastard who doesn’t want to work. If nothing else, who would take orders from a kid?_
> 
> _Not that it bothers me, really._
> 
> _There’s another state alchemist here. He’s called the Blacklung Alchemist, though his real name’s O’Conner or something, and he’s from the far west, so he has a weird accent._
> 
> _He_ _really knows his stuff when it comes to carbon-based transmutations, too, but other than that he’s an idiot. Can you believe that he doesn’t think it matters whether or not the metal is heated when you transmute it? He thinks you can just go and transmute it however you want, anyway. Ha!_
> 
> _Anyway, Hawkeye heard us and told us both to shut up, or else she’d make sure we’d regret it, but I’ll show him later just how wrong he is._
> 
> _Speaking of Hawkeye, she asked me to thank Winry and Granny again for her, for watching after Black Hayate while this mess is going on. Pass on the message for me?_
> 
> _Your brother,_
> 
> _“The wonderful Fullmetal Alchemist”_
> 
> _MAJOR EDWARD ELRIC_
> 
> _PS. They said that the Resembool area got hit with a late snow storm. Is that true?_
> 
> —Major E. Elric to civilian A. Elric. April 12, 1915.

* * *

 

Panting heavily, trying his best to ignore the sweat slipping down his temples and collecting at the small of his back, Edward watched his two enemies through wary eyes. They were both fresh and energized. He, however, had been fighting without rest for the last hour, and it showed in his movements, his laboured breath, his trembling limbs, just how tired he was.

But they were eyeing him up now, looking for some weakness to exploit, and he knew that they’d attack soon—too soon, if his shaking hands were anything to go by.

Hoping to buy himself some time to calm his shaking knees, he used the weapon he was most famous for—his foul mouth. “Come on, you bastards! Is that the best you’ve got? I know backwater villagers who fight better than you!” He barked out a hoarse laugh. “And you call yourselves soldiers? What, were you trained with those worthless Drachman assholes up north? I could finish both of you off with an arm tied behind my—”

With a low growl, the elder of his two adversaries rushed forward, swinging forward with his right fist. Deftly, Edward slipped out of the way, dropping to the ground and lashing out with a metal foot before rolling to his feet again.

The enemy soldier leapt back, just barely avoiding a blow to the shin. His companion came forward a split second later, trying to catch the young alchemist by surprise. A left hook nearly caught Edward across the cheek, but he somehow managed to bring his right arm up fast enough to block the attack. With grim satisfaction, he noticed his foe wince as his hand struck automail.

But no, now that he had an advantage, he was not going to let it go. Edward danced after him, moving forward in a flurry of punches and kicks and strikes, forcing his enemy back. He would win this, dammit!

As focussed as he was on his one opponent, though, he did not realize that the other was on him until it was too late. A heavy blow landed across his ribs, forcing the air out of his lungs as white-hot pain blossomed across his chest. A hasty handspring deflected some of the force, but he was still left coughing and gasping for air, desperately trying to refill his lungs before they came at him once more.

They kept pressing on, though, not letting up, not giving him the time to recover, not giving him the precious few moments he needed to be able to drag a few hasty breaths into lungs. It was all he could do, still hacking and wheezing, to keep one step ahead of them…

Suddenly, an uppercut broke through his weak defence and caught him across the jaw. He rolled as it connected, and let himself fall to the ground, but his eyes were tearing and streaming now, and he could barely see where his two assailants were.

This was going downhill, fast, but he couldn’t find any way to turn it around. Shit. Shit shit _shit_.

His thoughts scattered like a startled flock of chickadees, stray idea flying out into some direction or another, soaring away from the primal beast that was instinct. His limbs moved automatically as he rolled on his right shoulder, dodged a low kick, and slapped his hands together. The sandy earth slide beneath his fingers when he slapped his hands to the ground. White-blue light danced around him before the ground ate it whole, and then the trampled grass twisted and the earth beneath it rumbled as it hardened into a messy wall.

Before he managed so much as a deep breath, though, it shattered all around him like expensive porcelain.

Fuck! He danced away from the fresh onslaught of attacks, sidestepped an uppercut and ducked around a left hook. Dashed his flesh hand across his eyes to clear his shattered vision while he tried to bring his laboured breathing under control. Those cheaters! He should have known they would play dirty, even though the alchemist among them had sworn that he would not…

Fine, then. He could play dirty, too.

With a smirk, he clapped his hands together once more. The blinding light flashed again, and the ground opened up around his two attackers. Before they had realized what was going on, they were buried up to the neck.

Maybe next time they would remember not to cheat.

Laughter and a smattering of applause bubbled up from all around him and, surprised, he glanced over his shoulders. A small audience of dirty blue uniforms and sunburnt faces had amassed while he’d been busy fighting, and he frowned as coin exchanged hands.

Of course. People always liked to watch when this kind of thing took place; it was, after all, just another form of amusement around the command. He, being as caught up as he was, had simply forgotten that anyone was there.

“Hey! Fullmetal! Are you going to let us out or are you going to leave us here to rot?” It was none other than the Blacklung Alchemist who spoke, spitting out the words between coughing fits. His head, and that of Second Lieutenant Havoc, was coated with a fine layer of dust. Underneath that fine layer, the other alchemist’s tanned skin was flushed—whether from exertion or humiliation, Edward did not know.

He did prefer to think it was humiliation, though.

“I dunno…” He looked at both heads and pretended to consider the request. “We did agree that we wouldn’t use alchemy to attack each other…”

“What the hell are you talking about!” Blacklung snapped out, and Edward had to admit that seeing a talking head was rather amusing. “You’re the one who used alchemy first, bean sprout!”

There was a moment of silence. Fiery golden eyes met stony grey ones steadily. “Fine, then! See if I ever let you out! Dig your way out with your teeth for all I care. I—”

“Let them out, Fullmetal.” Mustang’s voice rang clearly above the hum of voices and jingling of coin, cutting off the young alchemist’s rant. The man himself stepped forward. “You and Blacklung clean yourselves up; I want to see you both at the headquarters in ten minutes.”

The blond was tempted to half-heartedly argue this order—he was well aware of the fact that he would eventually have to free the other men, after all—but the carefully neutral expression on Mustang’s windburnt face dissuaded him. And so, with a fair amount of mutinous grumbling and a number of profane comments, Edward freed the others. He collected his increasingly worn military jacket from where it had been tossed and, without even a backward glance at the two men now trying to free dirt from their shirts and shoes, he forced his way through the thinning crowd.

After some consideration, Edward allowed himself a brief detour to one of the command’s two wells, dumping a chilly bucket of water over his head to clear the sweat and dirt that had collected in his bangs. A stop by the officer’s barracks to change out of his now wet and dirty clothes—he’d clean them later, _really—_ and then he was finally making his way to the South Western Passage Command’s headquarters. 

As always, the place was a hub of activity. Blue-clad soldiers jabbered on radios to give or receive reports, confirm supply lists, or approve unit movements. From somewhere on the other side of the main room, someone yelled something about confirming communications with the three outposts in their district. One of the enlist soldiers brushed past him, muttering something about trenches as he glared down at a coffee stained document. Edward was almost relieved when he managed to push through the throngs of people and stomp up to the much quieter second storey.

He found Mustang’s office—last room on the left, and one of the only rooms in the place with a door—and let himself in without knocking. The man himself motioned to a pair of hard wooden chairs, but Edward ignored him.

“So, what? You’ve got more paperwork you don’t feel like doing?”

Mustang sighed, picked up a folder, and otherwise ignored him. “We’ve been receiving strange reports coming in from the central region for a number of weeks, now. A week ago, a surveillance team spotted signs that Aerugonian troops were on the move, so they raised the alarm to nearby outposts. However, when they went to investigate, they couldn’t find anything.”

Edward just crossed his arms over his chest. An exaggerated sigh brushed past his lips. Mustang had to know this wasn’t news to him; he’d been the one to sign off on last week’s report, after all.

An arched eyebrow was the only indication that the general had noticed his impatience. “What you might not have heard, Fullmetal, is that the Foothills Outpost to the east of here—”

A knock of the door interrupted him, and the Blacklung Alchemist entered just a moment later, red at the cheeks, dark hair dripping onto his stiff blue collar.

“Ah, Blacklung.” Mustang’s voice rang in the room. His tone was a dry one Edward knew all too well. “So nice of you to join us.”

If possible, the other alchemist’s cheeks coloured even more. “Sorry, sir,” he muttered, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “I, uh, got held up.”

“Clearly.” Nonetheless, Mustang motioned to the chairs and, as the other man hastened to seat himself, he continued. “As I was saying, two days ago, the Foothills Outpost to the east also reported signs of enemy movement that mysteriously vanished. Yesterday evening, another surveillance team—this one from the Plains Outpost—reported the same thing. The team was about 20 kilometers east of the outpost when they checked in yesterday, and they haven’t been heard from since.”

Well that, at least, was news.

Edward brought a hand to his chin, thinking hard. The Foothills Outpost was about 300 kilometers away from the edge of their district; the Plains Outpost, meanwhile, was the eastern-most outpost in their district. Either the Aerugonians were really bad at planning two- and three-pronged attacks, or a single group was moving way too fast through Amestrian territory…

He opened his mouth, but Blacklung beat him to the punch. “And we’re sure this can’t just be chalked up to jumpy soldiers and faulty radios, sir?”

“Plains says their team checked the equipment before they left,” Mustang told them. “Everything checked out. Nervous soldiers are something I’ve considered, but Foothills has assured me their team all reported the same thing when they were debriefed, so that’s not likely.”

“So you think it’s alchemy or something,” Edward muttered, eyes staring unseeingly at the folder still clutched between the man’s hands. “I thought that the Aerugonians hated alchemy—something to do with their ties to the Ishvallan culture.”

Mustang nodded once. “Traditionally, they’ve avoided it, but it isn’t too far-fetched to think that they’d look into it, considering the State Alchemist program. Beyond that, one of the Plain Outpost’s sentries reported hearing some sort of strange rumbling noise, which leads me to believe—”

“Have the outposts sent any detailed reports yet?”

Blacklung coughed. Mustang stared at him flatly.

Edward, his mind turned inward and flipping through a mental thesaurus of transmutation circles, didn’t notice.

If it was alchemy, then maybe someone would have seen something—a sudden flash of light, perhaps, or strange formations reaching from the ground like skeletal fingers. Maybe something more sinister. Something hard slipped into his stomach at the thought, but he ignored it.

“I haven’t gotten any yet,” Mustang said, eyes still hard, “just preliminary ones. If you need them quickly, I expect that you’ll have to send a formal request to the Intelligence team in charge of the whole south-western region.”

 “Sir?” Blacklung made an inquisitive noise.

But the Mustang went on as though he hadn’t heard the other man. “I’m putting you in charge of investigating this, Fullmetal. I’m attaching you to Second Lieutenant Caddock’s platoon; they’ll help you with whatever you need.”

What? Edward snapped out of his thoughts, and his eyes snapped up to meet Mustang’s own dark ones. He opened his mouth to question the man, but again, Blacklung spoke first.

 “Are—are you sure that’s a good idea, sir?” The older alchemist asked. He sat a little straighter in his chair, as though his height alone might make the much younger soldier disappear. “I mean—”

Mustang cut him off with a glare. “Fullmetal’s more than able to investigate this, Blacklung,” he snapped out, “seeing as he’s been investigating similar issues for the entire time he’s worked for the military. Besides, you’re being assigned, too.”

“… Oh.” The hardness in those grey eyes melted away, and Blacklung shrank back into his chair. Edward had to admit there was something satisfying about watching Mustang dress down the much taller man.

“Yes. ‘Oh,’” the General repeated sarcastically. “I’m sending you out with Second Lieutenant Havoc’s platoon. I want you to inspect and reinforce the perimeter walls of the outposts in this district. I don’t know what the hell the Aerugonians have planned, but I’m not risking the lives of good soldiers over it.”

“Very good, sir,” Blacklung muttered, but it didn’t seem like it was “very good” to him at all. His eyes flickered over to the blond alchemist before settling back onto Mustang.

“Both of you will continue to report directly to me throughout your assignments. Understood?” Mustang rose from his chair as he spoke.

Edward nodded his head in understanding. To his right, Blacklung climbed to his feet, muttering a dull “yes, sir.”

“Good. Fullmetal, get your bags packed and get ready to go; I want you at the Plains Outpost before nightfall so you can get started on this tomorrow. Blacklung, make sure you’re on your way by dawn tomorrow.” A pause for both alchemists to acknowledge their respective commands. Mustang looked at them both squarely. “You’re dismissed.”

With those words, Edward turned on his heel and left the small room. Leave it up to Blacklung to salute like a good dog and grovel and Mustang’s feet, he thought. After all, he had better things to do.

Liking pen a few very official-sounding letters to the regional headquarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random tid-bits of information:  
> Nope. Sorry. I don’t have any tid-bits of information for you lovely folks this time around. 
> 
> But, you know, review please? I’m especially curious to know if all these new random places are making sense to everyone. 
> 
> xCxBxBx


	4. If Life Gives You Lemons (Throw Them at Mustang.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward, hellbent on getting some answers, takes his team to search for the missing team from the Plains Outpost. Unfortunately, he finds them.

> _Colonel R. W. Boyle, Head of Intelligence, South-Western Region_
> 
> _Dear Colonel Boyle,_
> 
> _I write on behalf of Brigadier General Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist, commander of the South Western Passage Command. I expect that our request is fair and within your department’s ability to carry out with alacrity._
> 
> _In the name of General Mustang, for reasons of security and defence concerning both the soldiers stationed to serve in this region and that of its’ citizens, I request any detailed information in your possession pertaining to the following:_
> 
> _—unexplained occurrences in the region, including communications failures, the disappearance of troops, and misreported Aerugonian sightings;_
> 
> _—the positions and movements of Aerugonian troops within the region not previously sent to us;_
> 
> _—and similar information gathered and sent to you by Amestris’ other southern regions._
> 
> _I must request that this be done fully and with haste, for, as you are well aware, failure to do so will swiftly become detrimental to the wellbeing of all those within the country’s south-western region. Your cooperation is this instance is acknowledged by General Mustang; all those within the jurisdiction of the South Western Passage Command hold respect for your department and its tireless work for our cause._
> 
> _Faithfully yours,_
> 
> _Major E. Elric_
> 
> _Fullmetal Alchemist (Battle Grade)_
> 
> —Major E. Elric to Colonel R.W. Boyle. April 18, 1915.

* * *

 

The blustery morning was barely starting to warm up when Edward stepped out the Plains Outpost’s mess hall, his blond ponytail whipping like a flag in a storm and the tails of his waist-cape flailing and flapping. Though the sun was warm, the wind was not, and the low temperature it brought sent shooting pains through his scarred shoulder and knee. The perimeter wall, formed alchemically when the outpost had first been erected, did little to buffer the sharp gusts funneling up from Aerugo to the south.

It had been this same wind that had jostled and played with the canvas tent he’d been assigned to for his brief stay at the outpost, waking him throughout the night. A part of him—a big part, not that he’d admit it to Mustang—looked forward to returning to the Passage Command, whose thick-walled buildings quieted these semi-regular squalls.

Cradling a chipped mug of coffee in his flesh hand and clutching a few reports in the metal one, he made his way to the place’s headquarters—a quaint, single story building that looked more like an oversized cottage than the command centre of one of Amestris’ defensive outposts. The sentry who had reported the mysterious rumbling noise should be there by now, ready to be debriefed, and Edward was absolutely itching to get some hard answers.

He sighed, took a sip of coffee to prepare himself, and pushed open the headquarters’ door with a hip. The place, much like the headquarters at the Passage Command, the place was a hub of activity; voices echoed off walls and officers hastily scribbled out quickhand into notebooks, all while the chime of mugs and clatter of pens and snap of paper bubbled underneath. He ignored the noise and, instead of turning right to enter the communications room, followed the hallway straight. He could only imagine that his quarry would be in one of the offices at the back of the building.

His imagination, as it turned out, was right.

The sentry waiting for him looking more like a kid caught in a cookie jar than a soldier, Edward thought as he stepped into the cramped, cluttered little office. With a few pimples dotting his forehead and only the barest amount of fuzz adorning his cheeks, he had a hard time believing that the lanky youth before him was even old enough to serve in the Amestrian armed forces, let alone have gotten a promotion to corporal.

Not that he was one to talk, really.

But the sentry jumped to his feet nonetheless, offering a sharp salute that few soldiers ever offered the young major. Wide brown eyes, though, eyed him curiously, sliding over the epaulets on his shoulders before taking in his hair and peeking down at his automail hand.

“I—I was told… Major, uh, Elric, that you wanted to speak with me…?” He stammered out finally, and Edward wondered if his voice would crack.

Holding back the comment took some work, but he managed it as he brushed past the taller youth and perched himself against a wooden desk. A lazy wave of his hand—he noted that curious eyes followed the automail limb as it travelled through the air—gave the soldier permission to fold himself into a too-small chair.

“The report that the Passage Command got from here said you noticed what you described as a ‘low rumbling noise’ the night that the surveillance team disappeared,” Edward reminded him. “I want you to tell me everything you remember about that night.”

“Oh, uh… I really don’t know what else to say about that, sir. I mean, I told my CO everything already.”

Edward took a deep breath and remembered just in time not to roll his eyes. “Well, tell me everything, too.”

“Of-of course, sir.” The sentry squared his shoulders sand rearranged himself in the hard seat, then began. “You see, sir, I wasn’t… well, _technically_ supposed to be on sentry duty that night. One of my buddies—we went through the academy together, you know?—she’s part of the missing team, and I was kind of worried when she didn’t report in or anything. So I just figured that I’d, uh, give the sentries on duty a bit of a hand.”

He glanced at the young major, who flapped a hand for him to continue his narrative.

“Well, around, I don’t know, maybe 10 o’clock or so, I was standing on the southern perimeter wall, looking for any lights or flashes or anything that might mean the team was heading back. I didn’t see anything, but then I heard this, well, low rumbling noise. It sounded like distant thunder, sir—I don’t know what else it could have been. I looked around to see if they were moving any of the trucks, but they weren’t, so it couldn’t have been that, and I could see most of the stars, so it wasn’t cloudy enough to actually _be_ thunder.

“It was really weird, too, you know? It echoed across the hills, like it was coming from everywhere at once. I just… I couldn’t figure out what it was, so I told my CO ‘cause I thought that maybe it might be important. I was right, wasn’t I? It’s important?”

“Hell if I know,” Edward told him. “I’m just collecting as much information as I can right now. Do you know why you were the only one to notice the sound? No one who was actually supposed to be on sentry duty said anything about it.”

“Uh…” The pimply corporal dropped his gaze to his knees. “The sentries, uh… Honestly, Major?”

Edward did roll his eyes this time. “Just tell me what the sentries were doing, Corporal.”

“I don’t know about all of them, sir, but… I saw two of them playing cards on the northern wall.”

Go fucking figure. Oh well. He’d tell Mustang about it in his report. “And you’re sure you didn’t see any light on the horizon?”

“No, sir, but there’s a lot of land, so I might’ve missed something…”

“But the only thing you _know_ you picked up on was the noise.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you couldn’t tell where it was coming from.”

“… No, sir.”

“And you’re absolutely sure that some trucks weren’t being moved or that the engineers weren’t working late on something.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you ever heard anything close to that while you’ve been here?”

“I, uh, can’t say I have, sir.”

“How long have you been stationed here?”

“About six weeks, sir.”

Edward frowned. What could cause something like that? The corporal seemed pretty adamant that it wasn’t caused by anything or anyone in the outpost… “That’s everything, Corporal. Get out.”

The man scurried to obey, and Edward took a sip from the mug by his left hand. The frown decorating his lips only deepened as he scanned the scrawling notes he had jotted down during the conversation. If only it made some sort of _sense_.

A heavy sigh brushed past his lips. He gathered his now-cold coffee, his stack of notes, and his dizzying cloud of questions before making his way out of the small office. He’d meet up with Second Lieutenant Caddock to discuss what he’d learned, he decided, and once the man was up to speed on everything, they’d head out to where the surveillance team was last reported to be.

Maybe there, at least, he’d find some answers.

* * *

 

The early afternoon found Edward—and most of Second Lieutenant Caddock’s platoon, since they’d been assigned to “help” him in his investigation—being jostled and jolted quite uncomfortably as a covered flatbed followed a pot-holed road east and south.

The ride into the area where the surveillance team had last checked in wasn’t a long one, especially when it was compared to the nearly four-hour trek they’d embarked upon the previous day.  Edward’s own frustration, though, as well as the half-formed questions beating themselves against his brain, seemed to slow time until the young alchemist could have sworn his silver pocket watch was broken and that the sun had decided to stop its path across the sky.

He continued to flip through his notes, scanning them and trying to piece together _anything_ new, searching for an explanation or at least a plausible lead that he could exploit. As he expected, though, nothing presented itself. The same seemingly useless facts of dead radios and low rumbling noises stared at him, and he just couldn’t figure out how to connect them.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Major,” Caddock spoke up suddenly. While his tone was light, his words were careful, and Edward understood why; working with such a young—and green—commanding officer was something to be wary of. “But there’s an old wives’ rumour back where I’m from. They say that, if you frown too much, your face’ll stay like that permanently.”

Edward snorted. There were tales like that in Resembool, too. “Have you ever actually seen someone like that?”

“I never said that it was true or anything, Major Kid,” Caddock replied far too innocently. He shrugged a single shoulder.

“Watch who you’re calling a kid! I turned sixteen a couple of months ago!” The papers crumbled beneath an automail fist, and golden eyes narrowed in annoyance.

But the man just snorted. “Sorry to break it to you, sir, but you’re still a year younger than my kid sister.”

A few poorly concealed chuckles bubbled up from around the flatbed as more soldiers took notice of their superiors’ conversation.

“Yeah, but I really doubt your kid sister could transmute your shoelaces together,” Edward growled. His glare, he had no doubt, would have sent Caddock’s kid sister in the opposite direction, and he fixed it on both the second lieutenant and the sniggering soldiers for good measure.

Hands went up in mock surrender. “Point taken, Major. Point taken,” Caddock conceded, then the joker’s air vanished. The second lieutenant leaned forward, and smiling lips quirked downward, and bright blue eyes hardened. “I’ve been thinking, sir, about the strange noise that the sentry said he heard and where it might’ve come from. You see, I was there when you were having your fight with Blacklung and Lieutenant Havoc the other day, and when you threw up that wall, it made what some might call a low rumbling sound. I hate to point out the obvious, but do you think that we’re going up against alchemists or something?”

Edward studied the man for a moment, then shrugged his mismatched shoulders. “Right now, I don’t think it’d be a good idea to rule out anything at all. The noise and the disappearing Aerugonian troops might have nothing to do with the missing surveillance team—but then again, for all we know, it could somehow be caused by the same damn thing.”

“If I were them,” Caddock muttered, eyes flickering to focus on the rolling hills beyond the truck, “I’d probably want a few alchemists on my side. After all, we’ve got the State Alchemist program, so it makes sense that they’d want to try to get rid of that advantage.”

The blond alchemist just nodded. He had, after all, been thinking the same thing since he’d left Mustang’s office yesterday afternoon. There would almost be no point in starting the war if Aerugo didn’t have some way to defend itself against Amestris’ formidable state alchemists, but Amestrian Intelligence teams should have found something by now if that was the case. How would the southern nation hide a whole army of alchemists?

It didn’t make any _sense_ …

The truck lurched to a stop. Around him, soldiers were clipping canteens to their belts and slinging rifles over their shoulders. Caddock casually tossed an order to their lone communications officer: get a hold of the Plains Outpost and let them know that they’d arrived at their destination.

“Let the Passage Command know, too,” Edward added, gathering his feet beneath him and grabbing his own canteen. “Remember, we’re still under Mustang’s command.”

The dark-skinned woman acknowledge him with a sharp “of course, sir” before cramming a pair of heavy headphone over her ears and turning to the mobile radio beside her.

Edward didn’t know what, exactly, he was expecting—perhaps a gruesome battle scene with charred vehicles and dead earth—but this place certainly wasn’t it. A faint wind blew, ruffling his bangs and playing with his cowlick just as it played with the browning grass and the few scraggly trees that spread out around them. In the distance, beyond the rolling hills and exposed rock, he could make out the hazy blue outline of the Sibillini hills. More than anything, it reminded him of the untamed plains west of Resembool.

Firmly, he pushed that thought to a dark, cramped corner at the back of his mind.

Around him, the soldiers split themselves into fifteen groups of two and spread out, eyes scanning the trees, the dead grasses, the horizon… Anywhere that might reveal a clue as to the missing team’s fate. Edward set to work, too, and stuck to the road, eyes narrowed as he scanned the potholes and rocks. They would have kept to the most-travelled paths unless something had forced them to hide...

 _There_.

He fixed his gaze on a dimple in the worn dirt. A hoof print lay there, caught in soft earth at the very edge of the road. He widened his search. Five, six… no, ten horses had stood there not too long ago, in two perfect lines of five. A few of the prints were messy, probably from fidgeting; a few of the animals had been pawing at the ground at some point.

Something had made the horses nervous. What, though?

An old memory, nervous livestock pacing and pawing and braying, filtered into his mind, but he shook his head to clear it away. Even the youngest of Resembool’s children knew that nervous animals meant a particularly bad storm was coming, but there’d been no storms here in the past few days.

He moved forward slowly, following the tracks as they led away from the stationary truck and the thirty soldiers, up a gentle rise. Suddenly, in a mess of kicked up rocks and churned dirt, they dashed off of the road, dimpling the brown grass and disappearing over a bluff.

One of the soldiers must have spotted something.

The young alchemist hesitated, then turned back to the truck and the soldiers. If he squinted, he could just make out Caddock amongst all the other blue-clad ants scurrying around. “Hey! Caddock! Get over here!”

He waited just long enough to see the man glance over. Before Caddock had even taken a few steps, though, he had already pointed his boots east and was trotting after the horse-shoe shaped cuts in the grass. The slope was a gentle one, but constant, and his boots slipped once or twice in the loose dirt as he pushed his way forward. The afternoon sun beat down on his head, making his bangs stick to his forehead but, just as he was about to pause to push them back, the incline evened out and revealed the fields beyond.

Golden eyes widened, stared.

Well, shit.

The crispy, scraggly grass and sun swept trees vanished, pulled up by the roots and tossed aside, or else contorted and twisted and weaved into something else entirely. At the centre of it all, a heavy structure reached out of the ground as thought the earth itself had decided to drive it out from beneath his feet.

Thick walls, perhaps five meters tall, formed a ring at the centre of a swallow gully, and leaned inward as though protecting its contents. The inner walls, though—at least, the top edges that Edward could see—were streaked with soot.

Trembling hands balled into fists. There hadn’t been an alchemist among the missing squad.

Behind him, footsteps stumbled to a halt. Caddock’s voice was one of horrified awe when he spoke. “Holy…Don’t tell me that’s where…”

Edward just nodded his head. The hoof prints pointed toward the thick walls, disappeared in tangled mess of twig and branch and dirt laid bare before him. There was no way that the missing team couldn’t have met their end there.

“Get the rest of the men.” His voice was hoarse. “I’m going to open it up.”

“R-right.” The dead grass crunched beneath the second lieutenant’s feet as he turned away from the massive ring of earth and dirt, and started shouting orders.

Two groups stayed behind to watch their backs and keep an eye on the covered flatbed, but soon enough, most of the platoon had obediently trotted up the road and onto the rise where Edward and Caddock still stood. A low mutter flew between the men as they caught sight of the massive earthen ring, and a few of them stopped short to stare; a single private, rifle clutched between twitching fingers, paled.

The young alchemist ignored their muttered oaths and whispered curses. Instead, knowing beyond a doubt that he wouldn’t like what he found, he made his way down the bare slope and around exposed boulders, sliding the last few feet as his boots lost traction in the loose soil. He took a steadying breath, then slapped his mismatched hands together and pressed them against the strange structure. The blue-white light that always heralded a transmutation went almost unnoticed in the bright, mid-afternoon light; soon, though, cracks were spidering away from his fingers. The cracks widened, spread, and stone crumbled and fell away in chips and pebbles. It didn’t take long for a man-sized hole to open up before him.

There was nothing for it then. Flexing his fingers, trying to ignore his twisting stomach, Edward stepped into the ring.

It was a lot bigger on the outside, he noted dully as his feet lead him around the perimeter, and thick layers of soot streaked across the walls, the rocks, the ground, and the few cutters of branches that had somehow managed to survive what had obviously been a blistering inferno. With a sigh, he crouched down, reaching out to grab at one of the smaller sticks with a gloved hand. He’d barely closed his fingers around it before it crumbled, slipping out of his grasp and falling back to the scorched earth in a fine, pale dust as he watched.

Burnt wood didn’t act like that, he thought idly, staring down at the small cluster of branches and twigs. Then it hit him.

They were clusters of _bones._ Bones, cracked and crumbling and streaked with dark ash, larger groups for what had once been prized warhorses and smaller mounds for what had once been proud men and women in Amestrian blue.

And the ring that he was standing it had been an oven.

He nearly gagged.

Caddock and the other soldiers were carefully making their way through his improvised entrance now, eyeing the space before them with distrust as they spread out, looking for clues they wouldn’t need any more. One careless man stepped on what must have once been a femur, and it shattered under his boot. The soldier barely glanced at it, eyes scanning the soot-blackened walls as he continued forward.

He had to get out of here.

“Caddock!” His voice echoed off the thick walls as he rounded on the brunette. “Make sure that they get samples of every fucking thing they touch—the soot, the walls, the ground, the… the bones.” He swallowed down the nausea. “Everything. And have someone draw up a map and label where all the samples were taken.”

Caddock nodded, blue eyes bleak and face hard. “Sure thing, Major. Where will I find you once that’s all done?”

“Back at the truck. This… I need to report this,” Edward told him, voice tight, and he brushed past the man without another word.  

He hurried back to the olive drab truck on stumbling feet, thoughts churning faster than he could sort through them. There was no doubt about it. The signs were all there. And if Mustang hadn’t said anything about it, it meant that the man didn’t know, and that meant that _no one_ knew.

He ignored a salute from one of the men guarding the truck and hauled himself into the flatbed. The soldier in charge of communications was still here, listening intently and taking notes as she listened to whatever was being relayed to her through the radio.

“Who is it?” He asked, moving close so that he could tower over her while she slouched over the machine. He tried to muster some sense of satisfaction over the height difference, but couldn’t.

“Passage Command, sir.”

“I want to talk to them.” He held out his automail hand, beckoning for the heavy, bulky headphones.

With a final note and a few words to the soldier on the other end, she pulled the things from her head and slapped them into his metal palm. The noise rung through their canvas shelter, following her as she vacated her seat and hopped out of the truck.

A voice, tinny and crackling and familiar, reached his ears as soon as he slipped the earphones over his head. “So, Ed, I guess you found something important?”

“Yeah, I did.” Even filtered and distorted by the mouthpiece, his own voice sounded terse. “How fast can you get Mustang for me, Fuery?”

“I just signalled—” The master sergeant’s voice cut off suddenly, and a few muffled voices and some rustling sounded across the airwaves.

“That was quick, Fullmetal.” The voice was unmistakably Mustang’s, as smug and arrogant as ever. “What have you found out?”

“They’ve got alchemists.” The words tumbled from his mouth. “I don’t know how many, but they’ve got ‘em, and they’re strong.”

A low curse, barely caught by the mouthpiece on the other end, met his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random tid-bits of information:
> 
> 1) Robert William Boyle—A Canadian physicist who contributed to the development of an echo method that would be used to detect enemy submarines during World War I. 
> 
> 2) Scenery—Ecologically and geologically, southern Amestris is being modelled after central and southern Italy. (Just in case you want to Google it to see what “southern Amestris” looks like.)


	5. Barking Dogs Seldom Bite. (Unless You Piss Them Off Enough.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward is eager to start piecing together the pieces to this deadly puzzle, but Mustang's priorities lay on more important things...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no RenkinJutsushi belongs to Arakawa-san. I just borrow the characters from time to time and hope that I don’t break them… too much. 
> 
> Woo! Thanks for all your kudos and comments and support, folks! I know I'm a bit slow with the updates, but I still appreciate hearing from all of you. :)

 

 

> _Dear Al,_
> 
> _It’s good to hear that Den and Black Hayate are getting on well; I know Lieutenant Hawkeye was worried that they wouldn’t. She keeps telling me she’s going to have to do something to make it up to you guys for watching her dog and she won’t listen to me when I just tell her that, to you, the only downfall is that Black Hayate isn’t a cat._
> 
> _The first time I said that to her, she laughed and said that maybe it was a good thing. After all, if he was a cat, she said, she doubted that she would get him back._
> 
> _I’m still doing most of Mustang’s paperwork, because he’s still too much of a lazy bastard to do it himself; I’m pretty sure that Hawkeye ends up doing what’s left of it. It’s actually kind of interesting to see all the orders before they get announced and all the forms for supplies and everything. You’d be amazed how much we go through, just sitting around here and doing nothing!_
> 
> _I play poker with the other soldiers sometimes. We all get a ration of cigarettes once a week that they gamble with, and I keep winning. It’s not my fault that they’re so bad! Between all the cigarettes they lose and all the money they have to pay to get them back—it’s not like I have any use for the things except to let them do that, anyway—I’m making some pretty good money out of the whole thing._
> 
> _There are a couple of little villages within our jurisdiction. Sometimes, some of the companies from the outposts get sent to one or the other for about a week at a time to watch over them and to relax. I can’t wait until it’s my turn; I’ll definitely have enough money to buy some stuff!_
> 
> _How was the Sheep Shearing Festival this year? (Yes, I’m actually talking about the Prize Pie Competition.) Winry said that she was going to enter one of her apple pies this time. Did she win?_
> 
> _Your older brother,_
> 
> _“The Wonderful, Phenomenal, Mastermind Fullmetal Alchemist”_
> 
> _MAJOR EDWARD ELRIC_
> 
> _PS. Can you get Winry to send me more polish? The stuff they have here is crap and I’m starting to run low._
> 
> —Major E. Elric to civilian A. Elric. April 27, 1915.
> 
>  

* * *

 

 

The sun was low in the sky and burning a deep orange when Edward stuffed the last few sheaves of paper into his rucksack and drew it shut. Normally, the Plains Outpost would be getting ready to close up for the night; the sentries would be doubled while the waning gibbous moon clung to the sky and the main gates would be locked and sealed, but for now, the northern gate was not only unlocked, but one of the heavy wooden leaves was open.

A single military flatbed squatted before that gate, its engine already turned over and growling in the cooling air. The thirty men and women who had travelled south with him just yesterday were stowing their own rucksacks beneath the vehicle’s long, wooden benches with an efficiency that could only come from years of military service. Many of their sunburnt faces bore knitted brows and deep frowns, he noted, and he doubted the expressions were brought about only by the discovery he had made earlier that day.

Alchemists. Fucking _alchemists_. He heard a faint whining and realized his right hand had balled into a fist around the canvas straps of his rucksack. He took a steadying breath and loosened his grip.

How had a country with such close ties to Ishval managed to recruit alchemists for the war—especially alchemists powerful enough to ostensibly turn southern Amestris’ gentle landscape into some sick bastardization of an oven? And how had the Amestrian military, with its web of underground networks and clandestine resources, not known about this?

The more he looked into this mess, the more questions arose from it.

He sighed, scrubbed against the back of his neck. Well, one way or another, he’d get to the bottom of it. With that thought in mind, he threw the rucksack over a shoulder and made his way toward the vehicle.

Caddock was there, supervising as the soldiers loaded up and prepared to leave. “Make sure to ties those down tight,” he said to a few men, nodding to their canvas-covered burdens as he spoke. “The last thing we need is for them to start sliding around the truck when we’re halfway back to the Passage Command.”

A chorus of “yes, sir!”s jumped into the air and an extra length of rope was procured as the bundles were carefully lifted into the back of the truck.

Edward watched the soldiers as they secured their load. It would be a cramped ride back, he decided, but kept that thought to himself. “How much longer until we’re ready to go?” He asked instead, turning his eyes to the brown-haired second lieutenant.

“Not much.” Caddock’s blue eyes flittered around for a moment, confirming the location of each of the soldiers. When he spoke again, his voice was a low mutter. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Major?”

Edward shrugged. If he was honest, he didn’t like the idea of travelling in the dark—not when there were enemy alchemists in the area. But good idea or not, he couldn’t do any more here. If he wanted to figure out what was going, he’d have to get back to the Passage Command, and the faster he did that, the faster he could tease some answers out of what he’d learned here.

“After all,” Caddock continued, “General Mustang seemed pretty firm that we stay until morning and, well, he does have a point; if something goes wrong, we’re not equipped for an overnight—”

“Let’s just get going,” Edward told him, and his voice carried above the engine’s growl. The soldiers were adding the last few knots to their cargo, so he pulled himself into the flatbed and stuffed his rucksack beneath one of the benches. “Let me worry about Mustang.”

 

* * *

 

Night had long since fallen on the South Western Passage Command, one of three rear operating bases in the region. The command itself, designed to house up to twelve thousand men and to provide temporary lodging for another eight thousand, was in the process of being locked down and secured for the night. Sentries doubled as the moon cast a silvery glow on the verdant landscape, the garages and repair facilities were shut down for the evening, and the many warhorses were led to their stables. Only the infirmary, the mess hall, and the command’s headquarters remained fully manned and operational.

The moon was waning, and it flickered and hid as gentle winds coaxed clouds across the starry sky. A sentry yawned loudly; off in the distance, a pack of coyotes cried a mournful tune.

Yet, for all the preparations, the southern gates remained open and unbarred. A squad of soldiers stood guard there, weapons gripped in loose hands and sleepy eyes scanning the horizon. They were aware, but just barely. After all, on a night like this one, nothing would happen.

But the sense of calm and peace that curled through the nighttime air was deceptive.

For wartime was anything but peaceful.

And Brigadier General Roy Mustang was most definitely _not_ calm.

Eyes narrowed dangerously and white-knuckled fists stuffed into the pockets of his royal blue trousers, he watched the squad of soldiers through the window in his small, cramped office. He’d have to give those soldiers a talking to, he decided irritably, watching as one soldier offered his comrade a light. The tiny flame lit up half the entryway. Those idiots were acting like this was some sort of camping trip.

He let loose a deep sigh and drew a hand through his dark hair, turned away from the window and cast his eyes around the room. The tiny wooden desk was cluttered with manila envelopes and loose papers—originally set aside for Fullmetal to familiarize himself with a major’s office duties, but now something that he’d most likely have to do himself. Two bookshelves, made of unstained wood and crammed with more paperwork than he’d ever want to see again, leaned against a wall. The opposing wall was decorated with one of the oversized maps Hawkeye had laid out for him on the train all those weeks ago; push pins and red ink marred its paper surface.

With determined calm, he splayed his fingers, pressed them hard against the unstained wood of his desk. Ridges and knots danced beneath his hands. The first thing he had to do, he told himself firmly, was to make sure that little hell-raiser of an alchemist stopped pulling this kind of bullshit. Then he could deal with complacent soldiers.

A few noises filtered through the thin glass window, and his ears perked up. He spun back towards the window, stared across the loose dirt and trampled grass that made up most of the alleys and walkways in the Passage Command. One of the sentries had spotted something and was alerting the squad of soldiers.

The ten men and women in Amestrian blue tightened their grips on their guns and snubbed out their cigarettes; the soldier who had just finished with his lighter jumped to his feet and stuffed the thing into his chest pocket. Quickly, they took up strategic positions at the edges of the gate while a few of the sentries prepared their own guns and readied themselves on the catwalk. A single soldier dashed for the headquarters. Undoubtedly, he was checking to see if they’d made contact with whoever was inbound.

A few tense moments passed before the soldier ran back to the others. While what he was shouting was unintelligible, the hand gesture he was making was very clear; a patting motion with his right hand, meaning “don’t fire.” Both the sentries and the squad of soldiers lowered their weapons, and Mustang backed away from the window. His heavy footfalls struck a steady tempo as he strode out of the office.

If left unchecked, Fullmetal’s brazen disregard for orders would get people killed—of this, the general had no doubts.

So that disregard would stop, and it would stop now.

The nameless soldiers snapped off sharp salutes as he neared the open gate, and he waved the motions aside with a careless hand. His eyes fell to the soldier he’d seen darting to and from the headquarters just minutes before. “The inbound group. Is it Second Lieutenant Caddock’s platoon?”

The man nodded. “It is, sir.”

“Did they say how far out they were?”

“A few minutes, General. They just dropped behind one of the hills on the other side of the river.”

And indeed, just as the man was finishing his sentence, two pinpricks of light appeared over a rise on the opposite side of the moon-lit Tevere, cutting through the darkness and presenting an easy target for any enemy soldiers that might be lurking amongst the scrubby trees and waving grasses. The pinpricks grew and brightened, and the growl of a diesel engine grew as the olive drab flatbed trundled across the low bridge set in place nearly a month ago. It squealed to a halt just before Mustang and the squad of gate keepers.

Mustang watched as soldier after blue-clad soldier dropped from the back of the flatbed and landed on heavy feet. Rucksacks clung to slumped shoulders and brows, more often than not, were drawn together in consternation, telling the dark-haired general exactly what he needed to know—the mess they’d found by the Plains Outpost would give some of them nightmares this night.

“Second Lieutenant Caddock!” Mustang finally caught sight of the tall lieutenant as he dropped out of the back of the flatbed. Caddock started at hearing his name, then his eyes landed on the general and he obediently trotted over.

“Make sure everything gets put away,” Mustang told him even before he’d taken the time to salute. “There are nurses waiting by the morgue for the bodies, and Lieutenant Hawkeye will take control of the samples. Got it?”

“That I do, General.” Caddock acknowledged, then turned away without being excused. Orders were tossed into the air, along with a sly remark or two for good measure. Before long, a few canvas-wrapped bundles were being carried to the field hospital and the portable radio was being returned to its place in one of the communications storage sheds.

The general disregarded all of this, dark eyes scanning for his next quarry. Where _had_ that stubborn hellion gotten to? He thought irritably, trying to keep the frown from his lips.

Finally, just as he was about to snap at some hapless private to find the Fullmetal Alchemist, Edward meandered over from the far side of the covered flatbed, ponytail messy and sagging loosely between his shoulder blades, a gloved hand scrubbing furiously at his face. Clearly, he was exhausted, but Mustang disregarded this, too—if Edward had just obeyed his orders for once, then he would have had the opportunity to get a full night’s rest.

“Caddock said you wanted to see me,” the brat muttered with a wince, that same gloved hand moving to massage his right shoulder now. “Can’t this wait until later? I’ve got a lot of shit that I still want to deal with.”

Mustang stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his royal blue trousers and stared at the blond for a moment. “The things you want to deal with can wait, Fullmetal. Come with me. Now.”

With that, he turned on his heel and marched back toward the headquarters. The uneven tread brought about by an automail leg picked up behind him, while a weary groan and a few well-chosen curses tumbled into the air. From the shelter of his pockets, his hands tightened into fists, and a flicker of a frown wormed its way onto his face.

“So what?” Edward’s voice sounded up as they reached the headquarters’ main entrance, and the noise grated at his ears. “You want to know about the enemy alchemists or something? I haven’t had the chance to analyse the samples or anything yet, you know.”

Mustang reached forward and jerked the wooden door open with a white-knuckled fist. “In my office, Fullmetal.” He couldn’t keep the growl from his voice.

Edward rolled his eyes as he passed. “Fine then, don’t say anything. It’s probably not important anyway.”

Mustang didn’t reply.

The door slammed shut behind the both of them, and they tromped past the communications room where a handful of soldiers were still working, past the dark and empty tactical room, and up the stairs to the second floor.

The door to his office whined when Edward pushed it open, and the flimsy wooden chair groaned when the blond all but collapsed into it. Two golden eyes watched Mustang as he shut the door firmly and made a show of propping himself against the cluttered little desk. “So? What’s such a big deal that you need to drag me up here at eleven at night?”

Mustang’s fingers found the desk’s edges and gripped tightly. The stare he fixed on the young major was icy, and his voice was just as cold. “I’m curious, Fullmetal, why you decided to ignore my orders to stay put for the night. I thought I made myself clear that your team wasn’t properly equipped to deal with anything that might go wrong at night—an unexpected attack, for instance.”

Edward snorted. “Well, nothing happened. We got back okay, and now I can spend tomorrow morning figuring out these alchemists instead of wasting time getting back here.”

“That’s not the point.” His knuckles were white now, he knew it. He should have brought the brat to heel _years_ ago—then he wouldn’t be dealing with this irresponsible behaviour now. “The truck could have broken down. You could have been ambushed. There are people working beneath you now, Fullmetal, and they don’t all have your… aptitude for squeezing out of tight situations.”

Cold dark eyes met glaring golden ones. Then Edward tore his gaze away and crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Stop being reckless and act like a good dog. Want me to wag my tail, too?”

“Is that all you think this is!” The furious words filled the tiny room, reverberated off the packed bookshelves and marked maps, and the young man started. “Another token gesture that I can write into your file: ‘The Fullmetal Alchemist has been reprimanded about his actions in Heissgart’! ‘The Fullmetal Alchemist has offered assurance that his actions in New Optain will not be repeated’! This isn’t a game, Edward. We’re at _war—_ ”

“Yeah, I think I got that,” Edward snapped back. He rose to his feet and the rickety chair crashed to the ground behind him. “If not when I got a letter saying that exact same thing, then when I found the bodies of ten soldiers burnt so badly that their femurs were cracked!”

“You know what I found out there, and I know a hell of a lot better than you what they’re capable of! So why don’t you just mind your own business and let me do what I do best, so I can try to figure out what’s going and keep people from getting killed!”

The furious, snapping energy that filled the room was almost palpable.

“You _are_ my business,” Mustang said finally, dark eyes fixed on those fiery golden ones. He wouldn’t look away. “You have a responsibility to the men under you to do everything you can to keep them safe, and I have that same responsibility for the men who answer to me. If you continue to act like this, you can and you will get people killed. And that is something I won’t allow.”

He gave the blond one second to digest his words, and allowed himself another one to organize his own thoughts. “Whether or not you like it, Fullmetal, you’re an officer now, and you have all the obligations that go along with it. I expect you to conduct yourself like a member of my senior staff; you will not be so blatantly disrespectful to me and you will not disobey me.”

“You expect me to be another one of your cronies then,” Edward spat out the statement like it was poison in his mouth. “Well, you can take your orders and—”

“On the contrary,” Mustang cut across. He didn’t really want to know what the mercurial young man was going to say, anyway. “You can question whichever orders you’d like and say whatever you want—I doubt you’d be able to keep your thoughts to yourself, anyway—but, whatever you do, do _not_ let the enlisted men overhear you. Ask for a private word, or talk to me here.”

Edward glared mutinously, but said nothing.

Mustang let loose a heavy sigh. He loosened his grip on the desk and watched the teen closely for a moment to make sure he was listening. “Make no mistake, if you disobey me again, I’ll have no choice but to confine you to the brig. I cannot afford to have one of my officers and state alchemists acting like you have so far.”

His young major started forward again, a wild snarl on his face “You b—”

“And I will not,” Mustang told him, voice low and eyes sombre, “be writing a letter to Alphonse explaining why his brother won’t be coming home. Is that clear?”

The furious energy fizzled away. Edward’s golden gaze dropped, fixed itself somewhere on the floorboards by the bookshelf, and the young man’s mismatched hands curled into fists.  “…Yeah.”

“Good.” Mustang nodded. “Get some rest, then. You have a busy day tomorrow.”

Edward was halfway out the door before he finished the sentence. The wooden door slammed shut, and the noise bounced off the white-washed walls all too loudly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random tid-bits of information:
> 
> 1) The “don’t fire” hand motion that the unnamed soldier was making actually means “cease fire,” according to the US Army’s training documents.


	6. Make Haste Slowly. (But no one Tell Edward that.)

> _Dear Mr. and Mrs. Maryland,_
> 
> _It is with the greatest regrets that I inform you of the death of your daughter, Private Helen Maryland. She died proudly, serving her country and protecting its people with unwavering faith and devotion._
> 
> _Private Maryland was an exemplary soldier and a fine friend to those she worked with. She will be remembered for her eagerness to help others no matter the task, and will be sorely missed by both her fellow soldiers and her superior officers. She won’t be forgotten._
> 
> _Please accept my most sincere condolences, and know that, should you need it, the many soldiers at Central Headquarters are prepared to offer you assistance in these hard times._
> 
> _Most sincerely,_
> 
> _Brigadier General Roy Mustang_
> 
> _Flame Alchemist (Battle Grade)_
> 
> —Brig. Gen. R. Mustang to civilians J. and M. Maryland, May 10, 1915

* * *

 

The midday sun beat down on south-western Amestris, warm enough that the steady breeze coaxing white clouds across the sky couldn’t quite keep the mercury from rising. It was one of those days, Edward realized dully, where if he and Al had still been two boisterous little boys not separated by hundreds upon hundreds of kilometers, they might have once ran off to play by the quickly flowing Rain River.

He let loose a sigh and leaned heavily against the sentry tower’s stone railing.

His eyes wandered over to the Tevere, watched for a moment as lazy water curled around rocks and cut through the landscape as it flowed south. A few soldiers from the mounted infantry were near the water’s edge, and they clucked and snapped at the warhorses beneath them as they put the animals through their paces. Clipped commands and corresponding shouts filtered up from farther south along the river; just beyond the open southern gate, a company of soldiers stood perfectly straight, in ten lines and ten abreast. Someone—undoubtedly under Mustang’s orders—was running the enlisted men through another series of drills.

That smug bastard.

A low growl bubbled up from his throat, and frustration and anger flooded his mind, dark and thick like oil. Without warning, he spun, and his automail fist connected solidly with the reinforced stone of the railing, sending fine dust into the air and setting lose a single chip of rock. The impact flashed up his arm, making his scarred shoulder ache and smart viciously, and his dark mood only blackened further.

That smug, conceited _bastard_.

“‘You’re an officer now, Fullmetal’!” He muttered, voice deep and mocking and a truly terrible impression of his commanding officer. With a snarl, he turned away from the offending railing and started to pace. “‘You have obligations! You have to bark and roll over and wag your tail whenever I tell you to’!”

He reached the far end of the tower, paused to watch the warhorses and the perfect formation of enlisted men. “If that bastard wanted some pet dog to jump and salute and shine his fucking boots for him, then he should’ve gotten Blacklung to do this instead of having him check out all of the outposts. That stupid asshole doesn’t realize I’m just trying to figure all this out so that more people don’t end up being fried—!”

“You can’t honestly believe that, Edward.” A voice, low and female, rang out from behind him.

A creatively colourful curse, half furious and half surprised, flew from his lips before he could bite it back, and he spun on his heel to face whoever the hell had managed to find him—

It was Hawkeye, watching him through calm, contemplative eyes as she made her way up the last few stairs to the platform. Her hair was cut short—she must’ve gotten it shorn shortly after they’d set up camp here—her ears were free of any bobs or pearls, and a sniper rifle hung off her right shoulder. “I heard that the General had a discussion with you last night.”

His eyes narrowed, and he looked away as she cleared the last step. “So what? You’re going to tell him that I’m up here complaining to myself about how much of a bastard he is, then?”

“I think he would be more surprised if I found you and you weren’t complaining about how much of a bastard you think he is.”

He bit the inside of his cheek and didn’t say anything. A gentle wind played with his cowlick and brushed against his cheek, carrying the sounds of shouting soldiers and neighing horses.

“Originally, General Mustang was going to attach you to Havoc’s platoon,” she said suddenly. “Because you two know each other, and because he knew Havoc could take command if something were to happen, he thought it would be a safer option than attaching you to the platoon of someone neither you nor the General knew.”

“What made him change his mind, then?” Edward asked, eyes darting up to her. Then he cursed himself. What the hell did he care?

“It’s quite simple, really. He doesn’t know Caddock or Blacklung well enough to trust them. So, Blacklung was attached to Havoc’s platoon because he trusts Havoc, and you were arranged to work with Caddock because he trusts you.”

“Bullshit.” Since when had Mustang ever shown any sort of trust in him?

He could feel the stare she fixed on him.

“A part of the reason he was so frustrated with you, Edward, was because he trusted you to do everything you could to keep Second Lieutenant Caddock and his men safe,” she said after a moment, and there would be no arguing with her—at least, if the hard look in her eyes and her no-nonsense tone of voice were anything to go by. “Instead, you placed your own thirst for knowledge above the lives of the people you were working with.”

“They have _alchemists_ —” He began.

But she cut him off. “All the more reason to be cautious. No one knows where they are right now.”

“I have to figure out how strong they are and what they’re—”

“That may be so, but you had no information to suggest that they might have been staging an attack, so there was no reason to risk the lives of your soldiers.”

There was nothing he could say to that.

“You don’t have experience, Edward, so you made a few mistakes.” Finally, her eyes softened and her tense shoulders relaxed. “You didn’t trust your commanding officer, you didn’t question him to understand why he was giving a specific order—a luxury you might not always have—and, just as importantly, you didn’t listen to the officers working under you.”

Caddock _had_ questioned his decision to move out…

“Just remember the things that went wrong, so you can learn and do better next time.”

At that, he snorted.

“Oh, there’ll be a next time,” she told him, correctly interpreting the noise. “After all, the General didn’t remove you from the investigation.”

“That’s because he has no one else who _to_ investigate this,” he scoffed. “So he couldn’t take me away from the investigation even if he wanted to.”

“That must be fortunate for you, then.” There was something in the way she said that one sentence… But before he could put his finger on it, she shrugged and kept going. “Speaking of the investigation, there’s actually a reason I was looking for you. Dr. Muench says that he’s done laying out the bodies; he wants to review them with you as soon as you’re able.”

A face—mousey, lined, and sporting a thin nose and eyes spaced too close together—came to mind. That’s right, he recalled, the aging man was one of the many doctors he had nodded to in passing as they came in off the transports and, more often than not, left just as quickly for other areas of south-western Amestris.

“Right,” he said. The conversation, as much as he hated to admit it, had given him much to think about—as if he didn’t already have enough questions rattling around his mind. “Uh, thanks. He’s still at the hospital?”

“In the morgue, on the first floor.”

He nodded another thanks before his feet lead him down the stone steps and along the catwalk, acknowledging a few of the enlisted men with a nod or a short word as he went. His heavy footfalls rang off a second, wooden staircase that let him out near the barracks for the enlisted men. He made his way between the rows of two-storey buildings, crossed the main “street” running between the northern and southern gates, and found himself standing before the field hospital’s main doors.

A steadying breath helped him push Lieutenant Hawkeye’s words to the back of his mind—he would, he promised himself, deal with that later—and he abandoned the warm air and beating sun for the relative cool of the field hospital.

At least it didn’t have the same white walls and polished tile that he’d come to expect from medical centres, he thought as he asked for directions from a nearby nurse, but there really was no hiding the scent of sterile equipment and rubbing alcohol. His feet led him down the main hallway, passed wooden doors hiding offices and medical cupboards and rooms filled with empty cots, until he came upon his quarry. Unlike the other doors, this one was a sickly, flat grey, identifying it as the command’s morgue.

He hesitated, then pushed it open with an automail hand.

“Ah! Major Elric!” A jovial voice bounced off the walls, the metal instruments, and the ten sheet-covered tables. Dr. Meunch’s bespectacled eyes peered at him from over a file he’d been reviewing, then he promptly dropped the thing to his desk. His footsteps, heavy and quick, rang in the room. “I wasn’t expecting you to come by so quickly. Although”—a chuckle—“I suppose I should have. You alchemists always do want your answers as quickly as possible, don’t you?”

Edward blinked. How could someone who worked around dead bodies all the time be so, well, lively? But he pushed that thought away and turned to focus on the man. “Does that mean you’ve found something, then?”

“Yes, yes. I have done just that, I do believe.” The doctor guided him to one of the sheet-covered tables that squatted against the room’s northern wall. The sheet was pulled back with a quick flick of the doctor’s hands. “And it’s all thanks to young Private Maryland here.”

Muench smiled fondly at the cracked skull sitting on the metal table as though he were close friends with it. It stared back through empty sockets.

The skeleton, though stretched out and arranged neatly on the table, still looked far too much like the heaps of bones Edward had found some 30 kilometers from the Plains Outpost. Many of the smaller bones were missing—either lost or destroyed by whatever had happened to the surveillance team—and the larger ones sported deep fractures. His eyes drifted towards the right femur, and caught on a strange, bull’s-eye shaped pattern radiating out from where it would have attached to the kneecap.

The doctor followed his gaze and chuckled again. “Right to the point, Major. Right to the point.”

He picked up the femur and pointed to the odd pattern. “We see this type of damage fairly often when bones are subjected to prolonged and extreme heat. When exposed to enough heat, the tissues around the bone shrink, and cause the damage you see here.”

“How hot would it have to be to cause this?” Edward felt his stomach muscles tighten, but he kept his eyes on the body, travelling up the femur, the pelvic bones, the vertebrae, the ribs; searching for anything to set him on the right path.

“Well,” the doctor said. “It’s hard to say for sure, but it would have been considerable.”

His eyes found something, shining against one of the ribs, and he leaned forward. “More than about 650 degrees, do you think?”

“Oh, I would most definitely suspect as much. I don’t suppose I could be privy to how you managed to surmise that?”

He pointed to the hard, silvery metal coating the rib. “Considering where it is, I’d figure that’s her dog tag,” he told the doctor. “Those’re made of aluminum, which means they melt at 660 degrees Celsius.”

An excited noise, not unlike that of a child eyeing a birthday present, bubbled up from Muench’s throat. “Oh, your deductive reasoning is just astounding, Major. Let’s see what you make of this, then…”

And thus began the longest seven hours of Edward’s life.

The temperature had dropped when he was finally able to excuse himself from the eccentric doctor, and the sun was casting a feeble grey light over the command. His head ached, and his brain felt like a soggy towel—limp and useless and unable to absorb a single drop of additional information. Still, he gripped Muench’s report between flesh fingers, mentally reviewing what he had learned as he pointed his boots south and made his way to the officer’s barracks.

It was clear the soldiers and their horses had been subjected to extreme heats—the melted dog tags coating one of Private Maryland’s ribs and the many bone fractures made that undeniable—but the question was how. Even without the doctor’s speculation of the bodies being subjected to a flashfire, he knew that a long-lasting, natural fire would have been impossible.

After all, he concluded, thinking back to the browning grass and scraggly trees that made up the area around the Plains Outpost, there just wouldn’t have been enough fuel to keep an inferno alive for that long.

He stamped up the few stone steps to the officer’s barracks entrance and pushed the door open. The tiny lounge—barely more than a few lumpy armchairs and dusty, bare bookshelf—was empty, and he flopped down into one of the armchairs, kicking his feet over one of the armrests with a sigh.

“Alright,” he told the report, which was now just inches from his nose, “so the bones were heated for hours, but there’s not enough fuel for a fire to stay alive.” He paused, picturing the scene in his mind, and added, “and there wouldn’t have been any way for more air to get into that stone monstrosity, anyway. The only opening was at the top and the heat would’ve forced any fresh oxygen up and away.

“So,” he wondered. “How do I get that much heat without any fire?”

The report revealed nothing.

He groaned and scrubbed furiously at the back of his neck.

Blinked, paused for a moment, then scrubbed at his neck again.

_That was it_ …

* * *

 

At two o’clock in the morning, Mustang trudged into the officer’s barracks with heavy feet and slumped shoulders. He didn’t like having Blacklung away from the command for so long—especially considering he hardly knew the man—and all these setbacks the other alchemist was running into set him on edge. Reinforcing perimeter walls with carbon shouldn’t be a problem for a state alchemist who specialized in carbon-based transmutations, he groused silently as he past the officer’s lounge, and his jaw cracked as a huge yawn escaped him.

Just as he was about to set into the hallway, though, something stopped him. The crackle of paper caught his ear, loud in the otherwise silent front room. What the...?

He glanced across his right epaulet, and saw a now-familiar blond ponytail, mussed and hanging loose over a blue military jacket. Even as he watched, Edward shifted through a few more notes, muttered something about needing more energy, and spat out a curse.

That brat would be the death of him.

He took a breath and turned to the youth. “It’s two o’clock in the morning, Fullmetal. Get some rest and start again tomorrow.”

A vague mutter of “just a minute” was his response, but it was clear that Edward, shoulders hunched over his work and eyes focussed on a rough sketch of a transmutation circle, hadn’t actually heard a single word.

“Ed...” He tried again.

A few more muttered words that he couldn’t make out, and a few notes were jotted down by the edges of the sketch.

“Fullmetal!” His voice rang off the plain stone walls. Edward jumped, and the pen in his flesh hand nearly went flying. “You’re done for the night,” he continued. “Pack up your things and get some sleep.”

Golden eyes glared at him for a moment, and Mustang prepared himself for the battle of wills that always came along with trying to force the bullheaded alchemist to do something he didn’t like.

But that battle never came. “Why?” Edward asked instead. His voice wasn’t even confrontational—just tired.

“Because what you’re working on is important, but not time critical,” he explained, wary. Just what was Edward playing at? “And because you’re useless to this command if you work yourself to the point of exhaustion.”

There was a moment of silence as the blond considered his words. Then, to Mustang’s great surprise, he nodded and collected his notes.

“Fine, then.” With that, Edward brushed past him and meandered down the hallway.

The general could only stare at that retreating back. Finally, he shook himself and started towards his own quarters. Somehow, Hawkeye must have gotten through to the stubborn young man; that was the only explanation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random tid-bits of information:
> 
> 1) Hans Wilhelm Münch—A German physician who joined the Nazi party. Earned the nickname “The Good Man of Auschwitz” for his refusal to take part in the murders of prisoners and for his elaborate methods of keeping prisoners alive. 
> 
> 2) For all you American readers, 660 degree Celsius is about 1220 degrees Fahrenheit.


	7. Ignorance is Bliss. (Until it Kills You.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no RenkinJutsushi belongs to Arakawa-san. I just borrow the characters from time to time and hope that I don’t break them… too much. 
> 
> A special thanks to all of you lovely people, too! Your comments and kudos are so damn encouraging. (And they actually remind me to update this story, too, so that's always a boon.)

> _Major E. Elric, Fullmetal Alchemist (Battle Grade), South Western Passage Hub_
> 
> _Dear Major Elric,_
> 
> _In response to your letter sent to Colonel Boyle regarding enemy movement, unconfirmed sightings, the disappearance of Amestrian soldiers, and unexplained communications failures, please find the following documents attached:_
> 
> _—summary of confirmed Aerugonian movements in the South-Central Region_
> 
> _—summary of confirmed Aerugonian movements in the South-Eastern Region_
> 
> _—unexplained communications failure between the Central Southern Primary Command and the Minor Southern Outpost_
> 
> _—unexplained communications failure between the Central Southern Primary Command and the Apennine Range Outpost_
> 
> _—unexplained communications failure between the Minor Southern Outpost and its surveillance team_
> 
> _—unexplained communications failure between the South Eastern Primary Command and the Ishval-Borders Outpost_
> 
> _—unexplained disappearance of the Foothills Outpost’s surveillance team_
> 
> _—unexplained disappearance of the Minor Southern Outpost’s surveillance team_
> 
> _—unconfirmed report of Aerugonian soldiers near the Foothills Outpost_
> 
> _—unconfirmed report of Aerugonian soldiers near the Tevere Outpost_
> 
> _—unconfirmed report of Aerugonian soldiers near the Minor Southern Outpost_
> 
> _—unconfirmed report of Aerugonian soldiers near the Ishval-Borders Outpost_
> 
> _We trust that you will keep us up-to-date on any findings that you come to as a result of these documents. Please also be assured that, at the request of your commanding officer Brigadier General Roy Mustang, we will make all efforts to continue to supply you with any similar information as it is sent to us._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Captain A.B. Wood_
> 
> —Captain A.B. Wood to Major E. Elric, May 14, 1915.

* * *

 

Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc liked to think of himself as a fairly easy-going man. After all, he thought as he watched the Blacklung Alchemist’s beady grey eyes drift between the soldiers under his command, he was quick to obey orders, didn’t make a fuss when less-than-pleasant tasks came his way, and knew when to stomp out his smokes. 

But there was no denying that the alchemist he found himself working with just rubbed him the wrong way.

He couldn’t quite pinpoint why—maybe it was the way the older man narrowed his eyes whenever he saw Havoc light up, or maybe it was the way he dressed down poor Private Apache that one time—but Havoc knew he would be glad when their glorified construction team returned back to the South Western Passage Command. Maybe he could swap with Second Lieutenant Caddock and work with the Fullmetal Chief instead.

Or maybe, he reasoned, he was just in a bad mood due to two weeks of constant travelling, bad sleep, and the fact that the radios had just gone down again. The compounding issues would start to grate on anyone’s nerves after a while, right? And he hadn’t disliked Blacklung so much when they were both at the Passage Command.

With that thought firmly in his mind, he ignored the way Blacklung narrowed grey eyes at him as he lit a cigarette. He kept one hand firmly on the stone railing of the Rivers Outpost’s southern perimeter wall and met the alchemist’s eyes squarely as he spoke. “Apache says there’s nothing he can do about the radios, Chief. Thinks there’s some kind of interference.”

The expression that Blacklung adopted could only be described as feral. “Does he know what kind of interference?”

“Says he can’t tell. And it’s not just our radios, either. All the comms officers at the outpost are saying their radios are down.”

A sigh that might have hidden a growl burst from Blacklung’s lips. “Well, tell him to keep working on it. I want to check in with the Passage Command once I finish up here, and I don’t like being out of touch.”

“You got it, Chief.” Havoc touched his fingers to his brow in a lazy salute before trotting off.

It was then that a deafening shriek rang through the air, impossibly loud and unmistakable to a veteran. Before he had time to shout for others to take cover, a concussion hit the wall, sending dust and stone and wood and blood into the air. Flames licked at anything they could touch, soot blackened, and a second shriek whistled.

Another explosion sang out, and Havoc went flying.

* * *

 

The truck lurched to a stop.

Around Edward, soldiers were clipping canteens to their belts and slinging rifles over their shoulders. To his left, Caddock casually tossed an order to their lone communications officer—get a hold of the Plains Outpost and let them know that they’d arrived at their destination.

“Let the Passage Command know, too,” he added, gathering his feet beneath him and grabbing his own canteen. “Remember, we’re still under Mustang’s command.”

The communications officer, a dark-skinned, thin-faced woman that Edward knew to be a Master Sergeant by the name of Renault, nodded and slapped a pair of headphones over her ears. All around him, blue-clad soldiers were pairing off and jumping out of the back of the covered flatbed. They knew their orders—find any evidence of the missing surveillance team—and they didn’t need to be told again.

After a few words with Caddock, Edward joined them, searching the browning grass and loose earth and rolling hills for any signs of the team or their horses, scanning the ground for a stray tuft of horsehair and scanning the horizon for the telltale glint of binocular lenses. People didn’t just disappear. There had to be something for them to find.

“Major!” One of the soldiers waved at him with one hand, and pointed to the ground with the other. “I think I found something!”

Edward trotted over to the man, leaning in close to get a better view of what had been found. It was a… a pawprint… too large to be from a coyote and too small to be from a lynx, but definitely from a predator. He turned his gaze on the soldier who had called him over, eyes narrowed. “So what? A predator came through here.”

But the man was shaking his head. “I’m from around here, Fullmetal sir, and that ain’t.”

What the hell did he mean by that? Edward opened his mouth to press the soldier for more information.

But the words never left his mouth.

Without warning, the ground began to shake. At first, the trembling was mild enough that the young alchemist shrugged and wrote it off as imagined, but soon it was violent enough to kick up dust and knock him and his men to their knees. A deep, earthy groan sounded from all around them; the ground itself was protesting, loud enough that Edward would have clapped his hands over his ears in protest had he been able to.

The shaking grew worse, and it was all he could do to crouch there on his hands and knees, trying to ignore the ringing in his ears, trying to keep an eye on his men through the worsening dust and the brain-rattling quaking. The world had lost its shit, he decided. There was no other way to explain why it was twisting and screaming and—oh. Oh _shit_.

The ground before him, beside him, behind him rose up, up, up, catching the entire platoon in a ring of earth that leaned toward them. Stomach tightening, heart pounding, he tried to stumble towards the structure, to stop the transmutation, to clap his hands together and break the walls down, no matter how much energy it took.

They had to get out of here. They had to. They _had_ to.

But the tremors hadn’t stopped, and the rolling and twisting and shifting earth hadn’t quieted. Coughing and hacking through the dust in his lungs, eyes streaming from what still floated in the air, he could barely even make out where he had to go. Actually getting there was impossible.

And, with the ground still weaving and dancing and swaying like a drunken dancer, it began.

First it was a prickling, like a sunburn under his skin and heartburn beneath his sternum, growing worse and worse and he was gasping now, scrabbling at his too-warm wool jacket, throwing it to the ground and clawing at his chest, his throat, his arm. His skin, his lungs, his heart… they were all _burning_.

And still, it grew warmer, as though some invisible fire had lit deep within his stomach, blistering and burning and scorching at his insides, licking at his bones and reddening his skin. Too much. It was too hot! He couldn’t breath…

Somewhere to his left, a desperate, animalistic, feral scream erupted. The soldier who had uttered it dropped to the twisting ground, unmoving. Dead.

A scream, half furious and half agony, tore from his own throat.

He collapsed to the ground.

And awoke with a start.

Panting, trembling like a leaf, he pushed himself up onto his elbows. It took him a few seconds to recognize his surroundings; the plain desk and hard wooden chair, the small dresser and the military issued trunk beside it that still stored most of his research, the small cot that he was resting in right now, covered with a thick, undyed wool blanket. The walls were bare, plain stone and a small window showed a clear sky, filled with stars and a third quarter moon.

He released a breath he did not know he had been holding, letting out a groan as he collapsed back onto the small bed. He could feel the cold sweat on his arm, his face, and the small of his back, but he couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it. For some reason, it felt like far too much effort right now—he would not admit, even to himself, he felt weak from relief. While he was no stranger to nightmares, there was something about this particular dream that left him…

He shook his head, and blond strands flew.

“It’s just a nightmare, you idiot.” For some reason, speaking to himself seemed entirely reasonable. He just hoped that the walls were thick enough that his two neighbours to each side would not be able to hear him. “It’s been a long day. Go back to sleep.”

Rolling onto his left hip to face the blank wall, he pulled the thick covers high around his shoulders, almost covering his head. It left his foot to the cold, but he could not bring himself to care, though he eventually curled up and tucked it under the covers.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mumbled after a few minutes, rough voice nearly lost to the thick blankets and thin pillow. “Just go back to sleep.”

But, try as he might, sleep would not come upon him.

Instead, his mind revisited the nightmare—a hellish recreation of what he now knew must have happened to the doomed surveillance team. He shuddered, tried again to push it from his mind. He would be meeting with Mustang later to talk about what he’d discovered; he didn’t need—and, frankly, didn’t want—to think about this now.

He tossed and turned, trying to lull himself back to sleep. He was fucking _tired_ , after all, and the promise of more long days to come had him hoping to catch all the spare minutes of rest that he could.

But his head was too full of racing, turbulent thoughts; his foot was cold, even though it was tucked beneath his body; his pillow too soft; his cot too hard; the moaning wind that rattled the window pane was much too loud. Just as his eyes were growing heavy once more, a coyote howled off in the distance, and he nearly jumped out of his bed to prepare to beat the thing away from the flocks of sheep before recalling that he was no longer in Resembool to carry out such a task and, besides, it had been years since he had done so, anyway.

Finally, muttering a rather creative string of curses, he pushed the layers of blankets off himself, and stumbled around in the semi-darkness until he could find a pair of blue pants. A clean top replaced the damp one he had been wearing, and one of his uniform jackets slipped over his shoulders. His hair was pulled back by a hair elastic he found in a pocket. He stamped out of the small room as soon as his boots were laced around his feet.

The Passage Command was quiet—not too surprising, considering his silver pocket watch told his it was some time after five o’clock in the morning. Two squads of sentries patrolled the perimeter wall, a few communications officers slipped in and out of the headquarters, and by the sound of it, the cooks had just started preparing breakfast.

With a sigh, he turned away from the mess hall, pointing his boots toward the southern gate. On heavy feet, he made his way up the wooden staircase there, pausing for a moment once he reached the catwalk that ran the length of the perimeter wall. Would he be in the way of the sentries?

Golden eyes glanced around. None of the soldiers there said anything, though a few of them acknowledged him with nods or half-hearted salutes.

Fine then. He waved a lazy hand at the enlisted man still touching his hand to his brow, and moved forward. His eyes peered over the top of the wall as he meandered along, gazing absently over the sea of covered flat beds and half-tracks and armoured cars parked just beyond. He couldn’t see them, but he knew there were many times more parked near the northern gate.

A sparkling caught his eye, and he turned to look at it. The last quarter moon was rippling and bending against the slow-moving waters of the Tevere, winking languidly at him from where he stood. It all seemed so peaceful; it was hard to believe, even now, that good men and women were dying for this land.

He took a breath and closed his eyes. He would not think about this now.

“Major?” A surprised voice made him start. He spun, looking for whoever had called out to him.

It was Caddock, a pair of binoculars in one hand and a helmet on his head, who ambled over from one of the southern watch towers. “What’re you doing up so early?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Edward muttered. His voice came out harsher than he had intended, but Caddock just shrugged it off.

“I’m a morning person. Always have been,” the man told him, then added with a chuckle, “Drives the wife crazy, but it hasn’t changed since I was toddling around in nappies, so I doubt it’ll change now.”

“Anyway,” he went on, “I like it up here in the morning—it’s quiet up here, before the cavalry come out to take care of their horses and the mechanics start on whatever they have to do, and you can see clear to the horizon.”

“So then?” Caddock’s blue eyes were watching him now. “What’s your story, sir? Couldn’t sleep?”

Edward glared, but it didn’t seem to affect the Second Lieutenant in the slightest. After a moment, he sighed. “Something like that.”

“You know, sir, I was just a lowly private when I got sent to Ishval, nineteen and covered in pimples and fresh out of the academy. And the stuff, I saw…” Caddock took a deep breath. “I knew it’d be too soon if I was ever sent to war again. Then again,” he added after a beat, “I was just a new recruit at the time, not a state alchemist, so what do I know? I bet the cooks’ll be done with breakfast soon, though, and I’m famished, so let’s see what they’ve cobbled together.”

* * *

 

Caddock talked him into a sparring match not long after breakfast, assuming correctly that he had a hell of a time finding someone to spar with and proving to be just as easy to defeat as most of the soldiers at the camp. To the man’s credit, though, he kept demanding rematches, and he did manage to come up with a few underhanded moves that caught Edward by surprise at first.  

He only abandoned the blond alchemist once Edward started talking about having paperwork to finish for Mustang, but still found him again after a late lunch. This time, he helped Edward review their supplies, making the occasional suggestion to add to their stock of canned meat or spare horseshoes, and even filled out the appropriate forms for the communications officers to relay to the region’s headquarters. The man’s easy banter and light tales about his kid sister made the time pass by more quickly, Edward had to admit, though some of the stories did make him think about Alphonse.

The sun was sliding below the perimeter wall by now, and Caddock was finishing another—rather humorous—story while the two of them finished taking stock of the command’s medical equipment.

“So, I’ve got this juice all over my hands now,” Caddock was telling him, grinning madly while Edward chuckled, “And Charlotte’s screaming something terrible, because she _really_ thinks that I squished that mouse, and then—get this—I open my hand and start licking the raspberry juice off my palm. The look on her face was just…”

He could picture the look on Caddock’s sister’s face quite clearly. Undoubtedly, it was the same wide-eyed look of horror and disgust that he’d managed to paint on his own brother’s face when they were younger.

Both were still laughing when Mustang entered some number of minutes later, a faint frown pulling at his lips and his dark eyes narrowed. Caddock quickly brought his hand to his brow, though he couldn’t quite hide his grin; Edward, who had his hands wrapped around his stomach, wiped a tear from his eye and stood straight.

Mustang fixed those dark eyes on him. His voice was drier than desert air. “While I understand that you’re very busy, Fullmetal, I do hope that you can be bothered to remember when you have a meeting with your commanding officer.”

Oh, crap, was it that late already? Edward scrabbled at his chest pocket, pulling his silver pocket watch out and pressing it open. The thin metal hands told him that he was fifteen minutes overdue for his meeting with the man.

He opened his mouth to talk, but Caddock was already speaking, and scrubbing the back of his neck in a rather sheepish way. “Uh, sorry about that, General,” he said, not quite meeting the man’s eyes. If he were, he would have caught the mild look of surprise that flashed across Mustang’s face. “That would be my fault. I thought I’d give the Major a hand with his work, but I think I just distracted him…”

Mustang watched him for a moment. “If you’re at fault for this, Second Lieutenant, then you won’t mind finishing Fullmetal’s work for him while he and I discuss matters.”

“Of course not, sir.” Caddock sounded appropriately downcast, but the blond wasn’t convinced. He fixed a scrutinizing stare on the man—just what was he playing at, anyway?—but Caddock simply grabbed the paperwork Edward had left on a crate of goods and got to work.

Without another word, Mustang turned on his heel and strode out of the storage shed, leaving his young major to hurry to catch up.

“You know, he didn’t do anything wrong,” Edward snapped at the older alchemist’s back after glancing around. He hadn’t forgotten Mustang’s threat about staying clear of the enlisted soldier’s curious ears. “You don’t have to—”

“If Caddock wants to take responsibility for what happened, then he can take responsibility, Fullmetal.” Mustang’s deep voice carried in the cooling air. They reached Headquarters just as the sun sank below the perimeter wall, and a few gas lights came alive. “The consequences are something he accepted when he spoke up.”

“Yeah, well, you still didn’t need to be an ass to him,” Edward muttered, and would have said more if a private hadn’t chosen that moment to burst out of the headquarters’ main entrance and rush past. Instead, he bit his tongue and followed the general into the building, up the stairs to the second floor, and into the office.  

The door snapped shut behind him, and Mustang seated himself at his desk as Edward threw himself into one of the little wooden chairs.

“I have to recheck my calculations,” he said before Mustang could even open his mouth. After all, he knew exactly why he was here. “I’m pretty sure I’ve figured out how they killed the surveillance team, but the amount of energy that the transmutation would have needed should have made it impossible for a single alchemist—or even a small group of alchemists—to do.”

Mustang raised an eyebrow. “How do you believe they killed the team?”

“Okay, you know the three stages of transmutation, right? Understanding, deconstruction, and reconstruction?”

He received a flat stare, though the older alchemist didn’t say anything.

“Fine, fine…” Edward rolled his eyes. “Well, it looks they stopped at the understanding stage of the transmutation. They pushed a bunch energy into the bodies at that stage to try to ‘understand’ what they were made of over and over again, and the energy excited the molecules that made of their bodies. Basically, they were cooked alive at the molecular level.”

Edward thought he saw Mustang grimace briefly, but then the man’s face was as calm and collected as ever. He must have imagined it, even though the fate of the surveillance team made his own stomach tighten.

“It sounds feasible,” the man finally said. “So why are you so sure that a transmutation like that should be impossible?”

An aggravated breath tore itself from his lips before Edward could stop it, and he ran a hand through his bangs. “Because the amount of heat that it put out was high enough and long lasting enough to cause a flashfire—after all, Muench is pretty convinced that’s what happened—melt their dog tags, and crack the larger bones. And the transmutation would have needed to be big enough to do that to ten men and their horses. I’m still trying to figure out the exact numbers for how hot and how long. That way, I can figure out exactly how much energy they would’ve needed, but…”

“But what, Fullmetal?” Mustang was watching him closely now, long fingers steepled and eyes contemplative.

Edward shrugged. “I ran a few experiments to see how long I could hold a transmutation like that, and to see how much energy it used. On my own, I could only hold the transmutation for just over twenty minutes before I had to stop—and I barely got the temperature high enough to melt aluminum, but not high enough to crack bone.”

Mustang made a noise that might have been a muttered curse and scrubbed at his forehead.

“Yeah,” Edward said, nodding. He knew exactly how the other man felt. “Even if I can figure out exactly how much energy it took, I’m really just figuring out exactly how fucked we all are.”

The general was silent for a moment, digesting the information before him. “You’re sure that this is how the surveillance team was destroyed.”

“For now, it’s just a theory, but I can’t find any other way to explain what I saw there.”

“I see…” Mustang began, sharp eyes again turned to him. “I think it goes without saying, Fullmetal, that your priority from here on out is to find a way to counter—”

And, at that moment, the mortar fire began to rain down.

While he didn’t know how the enemy alchemists had been able to control that much energy, there’d been no doubt that they’d harnessed it, and had pushed it into the living bodies captured within the stone prison. The extra energy had excited the molecules, and the soldiers and their warhorses had been burned alive from the inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random tid-bits of information:
> 
> 1) Apennine Range Outpost: The Apennine mountain range runs the length of Italy, helping to create its characteristic boot shape.
> 
> 2) Captain A.B. Wood: Albert Beaumont Wood was a British physicist best known for his work on developing sonar throughout the First and Second World Wars.


	8. A Bomb in the Hand. (Is Better Than One Overhead.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks and shout-out to my Better Half/the World War II afficionado, Canadian Kodiak, for helping me plan out the Aerugonian's plans in this chapter.

> _Dear Winry,_
> 
> _Thanks for the automail polish—and for the oil, too. The stuff they supply for us here is crap. I really don’t know why they can’t drop a few extra sens to make sure that soldiers’ automail is properly taken care of, considering what’s going on. And, can you believe, out of all the mechanics and machinists that they have stationed here, there are only a handful that specialize in automail?_
> 
> _From the way some of the enlisted men talk, I wouldn’t trust them with my arm or leg, either._
> 
> _Not that I plan on actually needing their help or anything, I swear! Your automail is working great and there hasn’t been too much going on, so really, it’s fine._
> 
> _There’s a doctor here, some guy named Muench, who took an interest in alchemy a few years back and has been showing me a bit of medical alchemy. It’s pretty basic—and absolutely nothing compared to the alkahestry in Xing—but it’s kind of cool.  It’s all about accelerating the body’s healing process and dispersing alchemical energy in a way that can help a patient. Ask Al to look into it; it might help with automail surgeries?_
> 
> _Oh, and I was playing cards with some officers the other day. One of them, some captain or something, saw my hand and seemed pretty impressed with it. Turns out that one of his legs is automail to the knee. Anyway, don’t be surprised if you get a very stubborn soldier knocking on your door when this is all done, wanting you to build a new leg for him._
> 
> _Ed_
> 
> —Major E. Elric to civilian W. Rockbell. May 17, 1915.   

* * *

 

Even through the headquarters’ thick stone walls, the shrieking, screaming, wailing of mortar fire made Edward’s ears ring, and the tremors that erupted as shell after shell peppered their compound made his stomach twist and roll until he could barely breathe.

“Shit!” The word seemed strange, spat out of Mustang’s mouth as it was, and Edward couldn’t help but stare. But the dark-haired general was already at his feet, pulling on familiar gloves even as he sent his chair crashing to the floor behind him. Another shell crashed into one of the buildings to the north. “Let’s go, Fullmetal.”

The man was already through the open doorway when he barked out the command. Edward, ears ringing and mind buzzing, had to hurry to catch up.

On the first floor, there was nothing short of chaos. Voices were shouting orders and yelling out questions. Papers smeared with hastily jotted notes passed hands, while bodies very nearly crashed into each other as they hurried about the room. Someone cursed loudly when another tremor rocked the ground, and a high whine erupted from one of the machines.

“Fuery!” Somehow, Mustang’s voice rang out above the din, and Fuery, who had been muttering while he worked with the whining machine, acknowledged them both with a nod as they drew near. “Get a hold of the Rivers Outpost and find out what the hell’s going on. They’re due south of us—we should have had some warning about this at the very least.”

“We’ve—we’ve been trying, sir.” Fuery stammered in reply, wincing as another blast landed and as the machine screamed again. “We lost contact a few hours ago. I was trying to see what I could do here when this all started.”

Another curse from Mustang. “Don’t leave this room until you’ve heard from them. Understood?”

Fuery nodded, and they hurried on, pushed through the entry door and out into the command proper.

It was all Edward could do to not stumble as he stared, wide-eyed, around him.

Soldiers were scrambling, racing to get to their positions; officers were barking out orders as fast as the commands could be carried out; sharpshooters lined the western perimeter wall, ready to pick off any southern rat who dared try to get close enough; foot soldiers were running in every direction, obeying instructions or readying themselves and their equipment for the upcoming encounter. It was enough to render someone blind and deaf in face of all the yelling, shouting, clanging, blaring, roaring.

Another mortar shell dropped to the ground, exploding in the middle of the main service road that connected the northern and southern gates, sending dust and dirt and the body of a single soldier into the air. He couldn’t help but watch as the soldier’s body landed, twisted and bloody, and would have run to help the man—surely, he was alive, he _had_ to be—if a steady hand hadn’t tightened around his left arm.

His head spun around, and his eyes met two black ones. They flashed a warning even as Mustang himself spoke. “That’s what we have medics for, Fullmetal. They can help him better than you can.”

Edward growled deep in his throat, but he knew the man was right. After all, he told himself, as his hands trembled and he bit his lower lip, he was not a medical-grade alchemist, and his first-aid knowledge was spotty at best.

The medics arrived soon enough, and Edward spared a quick glance over his shoulder as Mustang continued forward.  They exchanged a few words with one another, but they weren’t doing anything to help the bloodied man.

The general began barking orders as they pressed on toward a set of stairs that ran up to the perimeter wall, taking the stairs two or three at a time in their haste to reach the top. Another shell landed on the stone roof of the hospital, and its deafening blast echoed above the shouting, the pounding feet, and Edward’s pounding heart.

They were on the wall now, running west, toward the hills and away from the slow-moving Tevere River, squinting in the darkness to see where the bombardment was coming from. A few of the officers were already rounding on them, calling out to Mustang to know what they should do.

“Stay where you are!” Mustang shouted back at them as another whistle broke through the air, growing louder, providing warning of the next assault. One of the man’s gloved hands gripped Edward’s jacket and pushed him down against the perimeter wall. “You too, Fullmetal,” the Flame Alchemist added, eyes searching the sky. His fingers were pressed together, ready to snap, and Edward didn’t argue.

Then, with narrowed eyes and bared teeth, the older alchemist snapped his fingers, sending a massive jet of fire into the cooling night air, the heat of it searing the skin of Edward’s face even as it enveloped the incoming shell. An explosion rang out just as Mustang threw himself down beside Edward. A series of sharp cracks echoed in the air, stone chips and fine dust rained down on their epaulets, and the man frowned.

“Just what I thought,” he muttered. “They’ve got snipers at the edge of the treeline.” Dark eyes glanced around, taking note of the few gas lanterns flickering and spluttering throughout the camp, cutting through the darkness and lighting the sea of rushing blue bodies. “Come on.”

Mustang pushed away from the wall, jogging back the way they’d come, Edward at his heels. The words he had for the growing flock of officers were short and terse; one major was sent to make sure the enlisted men retreated to the safety of the stone-walled buildings until further notice, while two other soldiers—lieutenants, the both of them—were ordered to have all lanterns on the catwalk shuttered and to gather all commissioned officers in the tactical room. The three men dispatched, they made their way back to the headquarters, the chittering officers behind them, offering information, asking questions, wanting explanations, all sounding above the bone-rattling explosions and shouts of the medics.

Behind the alchemically reinforced walls of the headquarters, the explosions quieted to a level that was almost tolerable, though the non-stop prating of the men and women who had followed them only picked up, ringing off the map-covered walls and oversized table.

“—how many men would you like to prepare, sir—”

“—can’t tell where their mortars—”

“—hiding up on the hills, surely—”

“—does anyone have any intel on how many they’ve—”

“—and the Rivers Outpost? Why didn’t they—”

Finally, Mustang’s voice, low and deep and as in control as ever, cut above the din, and the clamouring bubbled down to a restless mutter almost immediately. “Major Fairchild, what do your sentries have to report so far?”

A man with serious eyes and deep lines around his mouth stepped forward. “’Fraid there’s not much to go by, General. As you know, they have men hiding at the edge of the treeline, but in the dark, we can’t figure out how many there are. It looks like their mortar teams have set up on the nearest hills, just close enough for their weapons to reach us but far back enough that we can’t pinpoint their location. Beyond that, a few of my men have reported seeing the enemy just to the south of us—at least one battalion, maybe more—but they haven’t made any move to attack so far.”

Mustang nodded, but his eyes were already searching for his next quarry. “And where do we stand with communications, Major Airabonita?”

“We still can’t get in touch with the Rivers Outpost, sir, nor can any of the other outposts in our district. Fuery and a few others are trying to establish a connection, but we still can’t determine why we’re having this failure, so I can’t say for sure how long it’ll take to be able to contact them again. The district to the west was reported having the same issues with one of their own outposts, and they can’t determine the cause, either.”

Another shriek sounded outside and the building shuddered as a mortar round exploded on the headquarters’ roof. A few of the officers flinched, but Mustang fixed his eyes squarely on his head of communications. Edward, too, stared at the woman, playing her words over in his mind as he mentally prodded at the theory slowly weaving together in his brain.

But then his commanding officer was speaking again, and the rapid-fire orders sent people scrambling to action. “Alright, Airabonita, none of your men does so much as takes a piss until you get word to Rivers. Contact the other outposts, too—make sure they’re put on alert, and have them triple their sentries and surveillance teams—and make sure Aichi and Hakuro in our western and eastern districts, and regional HQ all know about our situation.”

“I want a battalion ready to go out as soon as we can manage it, and a second to be prepared for backup if it’s needed.” The command’s lone lieutenant colonel followed Airabonita out the door, off to ready the required two thousand soldiers. “I want machine guns set up on the perimeter wall to provide the troops with cover fire as they push out. And have the artillery units set up a dozen howitzers in the paddock—if we can’t push them back for some reason, we can at least blast the hell out of them until they back off. Have the backup battalion rally in the mess hall. Anyone who’s not working should take cover in their respective barracks.”

More bodies shuffled about. A half-dozen officers bustled through the doorway. “Lieutenant Hawkeye, meet me in my office. The rest of you are dismissed.”

Blue jackets flooded out of the room, muttering amongst themselves and shouting commands to their adjutants. Somehow, Edward caught sight of Hawkeye’s blond head in the movement, sidling out into the hallway and heading left, for the creaking, wooden staircase. He was about to leave with the rest of the men—Mustang hadn’t given him anything to do, after all, and he had to find some way to make himself useful before the tension in his shoulder blades snapped—but Mustang’s voice again cut above the sound of restless voices and shuffling feet. “Wait a moment, Fullmetal. I have work for you.”

Edward let loose an exaggerated sigh and fidgeted like a nervous horse as the last few officers left the room, all too aware of the continuing mortar fire that shook the ground and caused tremors to course through the stone building. Finally, the last set of boots stamped away and Mustang, too, led them from the map-lined walls and oversized table and up the stairs.

“What do you want?” Edward asked, wary, as he followed the man’s back down the narrow hallway and into the cluttered office, where Hawkeye was all too patiently waiting.

Mustang was quiet for a moment, catching his lieutenant’s eye before fixing his gaze on a wall map of the area immediately around their outpost. His dark eyes studied annotations marking the heights of hills and the locations of wandering animal trails their surveillance teams had found. “I want to know what you make of the situation.”

What the fuck? Was he serious? Even Hawkeye blinked in surprise.

“I think,” he snapped out, “we’re getting the crap blasted out of us by a bunch of Aerugonian bastards with more muscles than brain cells!”

But Mustang only sighed. “Don’t be so dramatic. There’s no way that they could overrun this command—which, I’ll remind you, has over fifteen thousand men _and_ two State Alchemists within its walls right now—with what they have with them.”

As much as Edward hated to admit it, Mustang had a point. He took a breath and forced thoughts of his churning stomach from his mind. “Then… they’re trying to distract us,” he offered after a moment, touching his flesh hand to his chin in thought and stepping past the blonde lieutenant to get a better view of the map. He tapped at a clearing nearly two kilometers to their south. “The troops that Fairchild mentioned have got to be there, keeping us from getting to the Rivers Outpost if we tried to, and their mortar teams…” His metal finger travelled north and west, scanning the hills until he found a particularly tall one. “… They have to be set up here. Anywhere else would make us out of range of most mortar fire, and they have to be using lighter models, or else it’d be too hard to make good speed while travelling through Amestrian territory.”

Mustang turned to Hawkeye. “What do you think, Lieutenant?”

Hawkeye, too, scanned the map. “It seems reasonable, sir. Their mortar teams, then, would most likely be set up on the far side of the hill. It would provide their men with cover and make it impossible to locate them with acoustics.”

“That’s what I thought, too.” The man muttered, nodding. “They’re trying to punch a hole in our defences by taking out Rivers—and maybe Aichi’s outpost to the west, too—but, if I had to guess, they don’t believe they would be able to win against this district’s full force if we were to meet on the field.” He paused and ran a hand through his already-messy bangs. “I suppose we don’t have a choice then. We need to push the Aerugonians away as quickly as we can and follow them to the border. Fullmetal, I need you to take out their mortars. Hawkeye, gather ten men from your platoon and have them rally in the tactical room; keep in mind that Fullmetal’s the only mobile alchemist we have right now, so his safety is your primary concern. Understood?”

“Of course, sir,” she affirmed with a sharp nod.

Edward nearly made a comment about not needing babysitters, but bit his tongue instead. After all, he didn’t need to get shot in the back by a stray soldier.

“Good.” Mustang’s eyes met both of theirs squarely. “Both of you, be quiet, be discreet, and, if you can, only let them find out that you were there _after_ you’ve ruined all of their equipment. Lieutenant, you have fifteen minutes to prepare your men; you’ll leave out the northern gate with the last of the first battalion. Fullmetal, you’re staying here until your team is ready to depart.”

With a silent salute, Hawkeye made to leave and fulfill the task demanded of her, but stopped when Mustang spoke up once more. “And, Lieutenant, it’s Fullmetal who is most aware of how to go about in these situations; this is his command.”

There was no hesitation in her voice when she replied with a smart “yes, sir” before disappearing to carry out her orders.

Hiding his surprise behind a frown, Edward could not help but wish fervently that he had her confidence in Mustang’s decision. What if he said something wrong, or gave a poorly thought out order, and someone was injured or maimed or killed because of it?

But, what if something happened because he ended up arguing some other officer’s orders? Perhaps Mustang was right—this was the best way to go about this. At least, that is what he continued to tell himself as the building trembled and more explosions rang beyond the office’s tiny window.

It alternately seemed like both an eternity and a fraction of a second before Lieutenant Hawkeye came to gather him, her hair hidden underneath a heavy helmet and a rifle slung over her right shoulder. In her left hand, she held another helmet, which she offered to him.

He simply shook his head at the offer, suddenly unable to find his tongue in his dry throat.

“Edward, you really should—” she began, pushing the padded, dark helmet towards him once more. To both of their surprise, Mustang cut her off.

“There’s no time to argue, Lieutenant, so get going. Besides, Fullmetal can’t use alchemy if he can’t see what he’s transmuting, and that helmet will only get in the way.” He held out his hand, dark eyes now fixed on the scene beyond his window, and she reluctantly surrendered the thing to him.

In the tactical room, they were met by ten other soldiers—eight men and two women—none of them younger than their mid-twenties. All of them sported determined faces, padded helmets, and heavy rifles. It was not difficult to tell that they were veterans from the various other wars fought during the last decade, and successful; all were decorated with scars and stars from past battles.

“Alright.” Beside him, Hawkeye was speaking. “This is Major Elric’s command, and alchemy will be the main weapon in our attack. This being said, I must stress General Mustang’s command that the major’s protection is our only priority in this mission. He is, after all, the only one among us who can effectively and quickly destroy the enemy’s mortar units.”

A chorus of affirmation was barely heard over all the other noises of war. When the blonde lieutenant did not say anything further, Edward realized that it was now his turn to do so. “So you all know why you’re here and what’s going on, so let’s hurry up and beat those bastards so that they’ll leave us alone, got it?”

Another affirmation, though this one seemed laced with slight amusement at his words. With that, the twelve of them abandoned the security of the headquarters’ thick stone walls and made their way toward the northern gate, hugging the buildings as they passed by, trying not to flinch as more shells shrieked and exploded and blackened the ground around them.

The gate was already open when they got there. Blue soldiers, guns clutched in trembling hands and heavy helmets strapped to their heads, surged forward, ducking behind the many military vehicles parked beyond the northern wall and pushing farther, farther towards the tree line. From the perimeter wall, the sharp coughs of machine gun fire began, forcing the Aerugonians hiding amongst the trees to scramble behind whatever shelter they could find. Still, retaliatory muzzle flashes winked from between drooping branches and leaves, and stray bullets buried themselves into the wall itself, into olive drab trucks, into the arms and stomachs of soldiers.

Edward set his jaw, fixed his eyes on the last few soldiers hurrying out of the gate, and moved forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random tid-bits of information:
> 
> 1) Fairchild—Fairchild Aircraft was an American airplane company founded in the 1920’s. The company’s planes saw plenty of action during World War 2. (Airabonita, meanwhile, is just a name I found while flipping through my notes.)
> 
> 2) Acoustics—Acoustic location is an actual method used by the military to determine the approximate location and distance of enemy units. First used in 1916 to by the Triple Entente to shoot down enemy zeppelins.


	9. Walk Softly. (And Don't Fuck it Up.)

The battalion of one thousand proud Amestrian soldiers flooded from the northern gate, faces pale and set, shouting orders or calling out enemy positions as they took cover behind the rows of trucks and half-tracks and cars parked beyond the perimeter wall. The dry cough of gunfire echoed through the air, and muzzle flash winked at them from along the forest’s edge. Somewhere to Edward’s left, a man let out a shriek.

From up on the perimeter wall, their machine gunners let loose their own barrage of bullets, and the retort of automatic weapons responded even as a pair of medics pushed past them, appearing from between two half-tracks as they rushed toward the still-screaming soldier. A torrent of yellow-white flames blistered across the grasslands between the Amestrians and their targets, and though the flames disappeared well short of their target—just a distraction, the back of Edward’s mind whispered, since even the bastard General knew better than to set the whole fucking forest on fire. They lit up the battlefield for a single bloody second.

Already, blue uniforms were stained red with blood that escaped through ripped elbows, torn knees, merciless gunshot wounds. More medics darted back and forth along the lines of soldiers as desperate voices sought them out, but not quick enough to stifle the cries of the injured. More bullets buried themselves into the metal bodies of the vehicles or else tore through canvas coverings or shattered windows. Faces and hands were sliced and angry, and weeping openly as their owners ignored pain to use blood-slicked fingers to reload their weapons.

Before Edward could tear his eyes away from the scene, before his mind could remind him that he had a mission, damnit, and he’d better get to it, an ear-splitting whistle cut above the shouting and screaming and gunfire. A mortar round fell onto the open flatbed of a waiting truck.

Shrapnel exploded outward, flaming and red-hot, burying itself into the ground, the surrounding vehicles, the faces and chests and legs of blue-clad soldiers. One man—couldn’t have been more than twenty, Edward realized numbly—dropped his rifle, fingers reaching forward to clutch at his knee instead. Even as Edward stared, the soldier gaped at the empty space where his shin had once been.

Then, pain wormed its way through what could have only been shock, and his hysterical screams joined the rest of the battlefield echoes. 

Edward shook himself, turned away from the sight to instead meet the eyes of Hawkeye and her veterans. Gaping like a deer before a train wouldn’t help anyone, he told himself roughly, and would only get more people killed.

“Let’s get going,” he barked out, but even he could barely hear his voice over the mortar, the gun shots, the screaming, so he waved them forward instead.

With that, they moved away from the gunshots and mortar fire and blood and dying soldiers. They used the vehicles for cover, trying to ignore the shattering glass near their heads and the singing of bullets burying themselves into hard metal bodies. Then, bent almost double, they abandoned even that paltry safety and dashed for the treeline, toward the outcropping of far-reaching stone pines and broad-leafed oaks that reached out from the forest and to the Tevere. A few stray bullets sliced through the air above their heads, but so far as Edward could tell, they were nothing more than stray slugs—none of the Aerugonians had sounded a warning. The enemy didn’t know anyone was sneaking around their northern flank.

And just as importantly, he added, golden eyes squinting to make out each of his eleven soldiers in the near-pitch darkness of the trees, none of them looked to be injured.

They paused for only a moment catch their breath from the awkward dash between trucks and trees, then they started forward again, turning their backs to the Tevere and toward the rolling hills where their target was hiding. Branches were brushed away with hurried hands as they forced their way through the darkness. Sticks broke underfoot, cracking and snapping, echoing through the heavy air like gunfire, and someone muttered an oath as their toe caught on a loose stone.

Could they not be _quiet_? He thought, trying to ignore the tension in his shoulders as he swatted a low-hanging branch from his path. These were supposed to be experienced veterans, but they were blundering around worse than he and Al had on their first night at Yock Island.

A hand appeared on his shoulder and he spun, his own mismatched hands already prepared to transmute his automail into a wicked blade before realizing that Lieutenant Hawkeye was meeting his eyes, her calloused palm resting against his epaulet. Her fingers moved just slightly, but the silent signal she sent was clear. Slow down. You’re moving too fast. We need to stay quiet.

His jaw tightened in response, but he knew she was right. He took one deep breath, then another, ignoring the screaming in his mind that they needed to hurry the hell up and stop those Aerugonian bastards from shelling them. He _knew_ this area—he’d gone over it with their surveillance teams countless times over the past few months, after all, and knew every stone and tree and deer trail that cut through the hills and gullies—but he needed to stop and breathe, calm the blood pounding in his ears and soothe the snakes in his stomach, and think.

The soldiers accompanying him were all freakishly tall, he noted, and that meant it would be harder for them to slip between tree trunks and duck beneath low-hanging branches. If they wanted to move quickly, then they’d have to find a less-dense area to travel through.

Focusing on that thought, he rifled through mental files and shelves, searching for a map that he had constructed in his mind. He found it, pulled it out, and spread it before his eyes.

A quick glance surveyed the area around them, past Hawkeye and the ten others, and his eyes caught on a dead old pine before taking in their distance from the command. He turned back to the mental image of hills and paths and roads and long-dried creek beds, noticing a narrow cut in the undergrowth—probably a game trail—that headed deep into the forest. They could follow that for a few kilometers at least.

With a nod to himself, he glanced over his shoulder again, meeting the eyes of the soldiers waiting in the near total darkness. Hawkeye held his gaze for just a second, and her helmeted head tilted fractionally. He was doing fine, she assured him.

His own nod was just as slight, and then, near his right hip, his automail hand clacked as he made a patting motion—a silent command to move forward. Hawkeye and the others gathered themselves, and they obeyed, moving slowly this time. Their footfalls were nearly silent on the soft loam of the forest floor now, save for the occasional snap of a twig that sounded in Edward’s ears like the gunfire still echoing off the hillsides around them. He ground his teeth as another snapping twig sounded somewhere behind him and slowed down more. 

It took far longer than he could have imagined to cut through the underbrush and find the game trail, and his tense shoulders were already aching as he stepped onto the narrow path.  However, he pushed the discomfort to the side, kept his head lowered and shoulders hunched.

At least a trickle of moonlight managed to work its way past the full leaves and dropping boughs now, giving them just enough faint light to check the ground at their feet if they squinted. They picked up their pace again, passing information in quick, choppy hand signals that expressed their strung nerves in spite of smooth faces.

Above, the light shifted, their only evidence of just how much time had passed. His hands tightened into fists, though he released them just as quickly when the servos in his right hand started whining far too loudly.

They kept going, kilometers passing under their heavy boots and soft steps. The echoing explosions paused a few times, and his stomach tightened each time, both worry and anticipation itching at his fingers and scratching at the base of his skull. Was Mustang wrong? _Could_ their enemy have somehow taken out the Passage Command with the troops they had brought? What if the enemy had brought their impossibly powerful alchemists with them?

He buried a growl deep in his throat and resisted the urge to move faster.

Finally, as he knew they would, they stumbled upon a rocky outcropping, blue-white in the moonlight—the limestone edge of a dried up creek bed that sild and tumbled down the hillside. Between the uneven stones and the fact that they could be seen easily, they would have to be careful, but it was the fastest way to make their way up the tree-lined slopes and to where their target was set up.

With a few quick gestures, two groups of two soldiers were sent to inspect the forest to their right and left flanks, searching for any signs that the Aerugonians had set up traps or surveillance posts. He took a steadying breath as their blue uniforms disappeared into the cover of the trees, pulled his silver watch from his breast pocket. It was nearly midnight now; they’d been travelling for more than two hours.

How many more explosions had rocked the command? How many more soldiers had lost arms, legs, lives? He breathed deeply, found a flat rock to seat himself on and motioned for the others to do the same, and forced the thoughts into a cramped box at the back of his mind. If he wanted to help all the men and women back at the command, then he would have to succeed at this mission. It was as simple as that.

The search teams were returning now, after several tense minutes, and he quickly stuffed the watch back into his pocket to hide his trembling hand. With shaking heads, the two teams informed him that they hadn’t found anything—the Aerugonians hadn’t set up any sentries.

He nodded his understanding, and they moved onward, staying close to the branches hiding their approach, heavy shoes slipping on stones worn smooth from years’ worth of rainy seasons.

It was hard work, balancing on unbalanced boulders and choosing steps that wouldn’t result in a shower of clattering pebbles, and their progress slowed to a crawl as the terrain began to tilt, becoming steeper and more rugged as they made their way up the hill’s face. Sweat beaded at his temples and collected between his shoulder blades, ran down his neck and tickled at the base of his neck as he kept moving, ears straining to hear something other than the laboured breathing of the eleven soldiers at his back and his own thundering heart.   

Suddenly, a few stones clattered down the dried creek bed, the noise echoing off the black trees as they tumbled down the hill. Edward’s heart relocated to somewhere in his throat, and he was already formulating a half-dozen transmutations to protect his men and confuse any enemy soldiers as he spun on a heel, eyes searching the heavy tree limbs and silvery rock bed and dark landscape. Instead, his eyes fell upon one man, cowering under the glares of his comrades as he climbed to his feet.

Al would be proud, Edward decided, that his older brother had learned the patience to not scream at idiots who deserved to be taken down a notch. Hell, he’d even bitten back the litany of curses dancing on his tongue.

He waved them on as a few disgruntled birds to their right took off, flapping their wings and upsetting a spindly looking stone pine as they did so.

The heavy cloud cover lightened as they moved onward, and the moon occasionally managed to force its way through to throw a silver light across their path. The forest’s noises still beat and crackled around them, owls hunting and a lone predator padding through the underbrush. The echoes of mortar fire that bounced off the hills around them, though, grew slowly and steadily louder until even their breathing and footsteps and odd misstep were drowned out by the noise.

They abandoned their rocky, clumsy trail, disappearing between the straight trunks and around knotted roots. The moonlight disappeared, and Edward wondered briefly if they should stop to let their eyes adjust to the near-pitch darkness before realizing it wouldn’t be needed. Faint light was filtering between the black trunks, white and dancing and just bright enough to notice that it wasn’t at all natural.

He waved a frantic hand, signalling for the lot of them to get down. Even from where they were, a few indistinct words were shouted out, and another blast thundered around them.

From where he was, crouched on the soft loam of the forest floor, he could feel eleven sets of eyes looking to him, waiting for orders. He took a steadying breath through his nose, set his jaw, and met those gazes squarely. “They’ve got to have sentries or something somewhere, watching the mortar team’s backs while they’re busy. You four—” he chose two of the biggest and two of the smallest in their team. Hopefully, the combination of agility and brute strength would help them “—smoke them out and make sure they’re not a problem.”

All four nodded, and split away.

Golden eyes watched them go for a moment before turning back. He pointed to two soldiers who had been the most sure-footed on their way here. “I need to know exactly how much they have of everything—men, weaponry, horses, spare munitions, everything. You two, you think you can manage that?”

“Of course, sir.” The voice that responded was female. Her companion touched his hand to his brow in a salute, and they snuck away into the darkness.

He settled himself against the trunk of an old oak, hand curled around his chin as he sorted through thoughts and questions. They had both alchemy and the element of surprise on their side, but there was no doubt that they were outnumbered and outgunned.

His scouts returned first, breathless but unharmed. They moved close to him, crouched between him and Hawkeye, and began.

“They’ve got ten mortars, each maybe five meters apart,” the male soldier explained, his voice rushed and almost inaudible against the background of shouting and explosions caused by their Aerugonian targets, “and there are three men working at each one. There’s a half squad of men at their south end, watching their horses—they have twelve of them—keeping an eye on their southern flank, and supplying the mortar teams with extra munitions.”

“Forty men, then,” Hawkeye muttered, eyes fixed on the soldiers’.

The man nodded, and Edward frowned. They were outnumbered almost four to one. He scrubbed at his chin, concocted and then threw out a handful of different strategies, and listened through one ear as his four other soldiers returned and reported—five enemy sentries down, and the main group was none the wiser. How, exactly, would he fix such shitty odds?

A grungy little piece of paper, one he had glanced at and disregarded during one of his meetings in Mustang’s office, came to mind. A requisition form from one of their outposts; Rivers had wanted more ammunition for their vehicle-mounted weapons…

The idea lit up his brain like, well, a gas lantern on a dark night. It was a risk, but he’d have to take it.

He nodded to himself, then met the eyes of the others squarely. “Spread yourselves out in the trees, pick your targets, and keep out of sight. When everything goes to hell, take them down.”

“E-Major, what are you planning?” It was Hawkeye who spoke up, eyeing him suspiciously. Probably, Edward thought, thinking of all the damage reports she often had to force the Idiot General to sign.

He offered her a grin that could only be described as feral. Her eyes narrowed. “We need a distraction, and I have just the solution. Now come on, you’re with me. Everyone else,” he added, “spread out.”

With that, he picked himself up off the damp ground and began slinking toward the enemy’s southern flank. Behind him, he heard the sounds of careful movement, and the fine hairs standing up on the back of his neck let him know that Hawkeye was following him. At the southern flank, they found a gnarly old tree, its branches warped and knotted, and its thick trunk bent at an odd angle, and hid in its deep shadows. Just a scant handful of meters and a few spindly stone pines separated them from the five Aerugonians in charge of the horses and spare supplies now—so close that he could hear their conversation even if he couldn’t understand the strange tongue they were speaking in, and nearly close enough to make out the stars and stripes on their shoulders.

Just as his scouts had reported, five of the beige-clad soldiers were stationed here, along with a dozen burly packhorses and boxes upon boxes of ammunition, most already opened and empty. A single gas lantern rested on one of the empty boxes, turning the dark face of one of the men almost white as he bent over a map. The two men closest to him, meanwhile, were laughing about something as they patted the neck of a nervous horse. Edward’s breath caught for a moment when the animal’s ears flicked and its eyes moved in his and Hawkeye’s direction, but the two idiots were too distracted by their conversation to notice.

However, he realized, squinting through the semi-darkness and the deep shadows at the long wooden boxes, he still couldn’t make out what the damned rounds were made of.

So instead, he fixed his eyes back on the horses, watching as they pawed at the ground and shook their heads. “You know,” he whispered at Hawkeye. “When Al and I were little, there was this one farmer we didn’t like. He used to load up his cart and head to town really early in the morning, and his stupid donkey brayed the whole time.”

She didn’t say anything, though her eyebrow raised, questioning the point to his story.

He pulled off his blue military jacket and hid his hands under it. “Turns out,” he continued, and the thick wool fibres muffled the soft clap as his hands came together, “that donkeys and horses are _really_ easy to scare.”

He pressed his hands to the forest floor. The ground shifted and slid beneath his fingers; the tree roots around him groaned ever so slightly in protest, but the careless enemy soldiers, completely oblivious, didn’t pause in their conversation, their mortar round-carrying, or their map-checking.

The horses, however, did notice the faint quaking of the earth that he had caused, rearing and plunging, screaming and howling into the night air, pulling desperately at the branches their reins had been tied to.

Someone barked out what Edward assumed was an impressive string of curses. The careless conversation dissolved into shouting, the map fluttered to the ground as its owner abandoned it, and all five of the soldiers converged on the panicked animals. Perfect.

“Watch my back,” he told Hawkeye. Before she could protest, he slung his jacket back over his shoulders—the last thing he needed was for one of them to notice the flash of automail—and darted out of cover.

 His own footfalls rang too loudly in his ears as he dashed forward, and his heart thundered louder than even the explosive firing of the mortar teams. Even as the horses kept up with their screaming and pawing and snorting, he was sure that someone would turn around and catch his Amestrian blues from the corner of an eye…

He skittered to a stop for just a moment near one of the munition boxes, wrapped his fingers around one of the rounds—damn, those things were heavy—and made a bee-line for the paltry safety of the treeline. He dropped behind a thick trunk not a moment too soon; the horses were finally calming, though nickers still filtered into the air, sounding below the mens’ confused shouting and the calls for more rounds.

Heart pounding and lungs burning, he moved not a muscle as he listened to the five of them return to their tasks. If they saw his footprints, or noticed that a round was missing…

But, beyond a few disgruntled commands and bad-tempered retorts, the beige-clad soldiers settled back down. They hadn’t noticed a thing.

Edward let lose a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and carefully, oh so carefully, made his way back to where he’d left Hawkeye.

Her glare was impressive, honed by years of lackluster performances from commanding officers and subordinates alike, but he responded to it with his own smug grin. He held the round, unpainted metal and shaped like a pear, toward her like a prize. “Do you know what most explosives are made of, Lieutenant?”

If anything, her glare sharpened. “Edward, explain to me why you thought it reasonable to do that. I don’t want to have to tell the General about this—”

He rolled his eyes. “Ammonal. A combination of ammonium nitrate, aluminum, charcoal, and trinitrotoluene. With a few minor adjustments—” again, he shucked off his jacket to hide the light of a transmutation “—I can start a chemical reaction that’ll eat through the metal and release the ammonia as gas.”

She blinked, and understanding etched itself on her face. In the faint light filtering through the trees, he watched her swallow as she thumbed her rifles’ safety catch. He touched his hands together again and pressed them against the explosive as the thrill of alchemical energy gathered in his fingers. Then, with a nod to the blond lieutenant, he crept towards the clearing—and toward the platoon of heavily armed enemy soldiers—again.

Considering how much the thing weighed, it took surprisingly little effort to set the thing on the forest floor and set it rolling. The metallic singing noise it made as it wobbled and moved forward, edging closer to the Aerugonians even as its metal casing began to buckle and redden with rust, was lost against the shouting of orders and the steady firing of the mortars.

The round crept closer, closer, cracking a little as the chemical reaction within picked up speed. Still, no one seemed to notice it. How stupid could these idiots be?

It wasn’t until a beige-clad soldier accidentally kicked it with a heavy boot that the explosive was noticed, rusted and cracked and, Edward knew, already leaking some small amount of ammonia into the air. The soldier stared at it for a moment, obviously confused, before reaching down to pick it up.

The young alchemist couldn’t stop himself from grinning. Wrong move, asshole.

The corroded metal crumbled in the man’s hands, releasing the gas in an invisible—but eye-searingly pungent—cloud. The soldier yelped, dropped the metal scraps, and scrubbed at his watering eyes, swearing between sneezes. One of the other men laughed at him and said a few words before turning to load another mortar round. Before he could drop the round into the thick steel barrel, though, he paused, and promptly began sneezing like he was allergic to life itself. Spat out curses and loud oaths began to permeate the cool night air as the gas spread, and the soldiers scrambled to cover their mouths and noses with sleeves, handkerchiefs, anything they could find.

That was when his own men decided this qualified as everything going to hell. The sharp crack of gunfire echoed off the trees, first once, then twice, then a dozen times over. It was a panic.

Frantically, Aerugonians tried to reach for pistols hanging from their belts, rifles propped idly against boxes of ammunition. But their eyes were still watering, their throats still burning from the smell, and they called to one another and screamed and shouted and snapped out useless commands that Edward couldn’t understand, unable in their panic to figure out where the threat was coming from.

One beige-clad soldier dropped to the ground, moaning as he clutched at his stomach, black blood seeping between his fingers. Then another fell, not making any sound at all. Then another.

Edward swallowed thickly, trying to push back the bile rising in his throat, and trying to block the sound of one woman’s screams as she clutched at her thigh, clapped his hands together again.

The fight didn’t last long after that—of the forty Aerugonians originally sent to the hilltop, only seven survived, mostly caught in the thick dirt-and-mud prisons that had sprouted from the ground at the young alchemist’s command. Dark, angry eyes caught on the Amestrians emerging from the depths on the forest, and heavily accented oaths and pain-filled promises—ones that Edward could understand this time—met the ears of Edward and his team as they neared.

“Northern whore’s sons!” The lone female soldier shouted, her fingers and pants bloody and her face wet. Her voice broke, but she kept screaming. “Amestrian pigs! You and your alchemist pets will all burn in Hell. You’ll lose! You’ll—”

One of his soldiers, sporting a bloody hand but otherwise fine, spoke up, cutting her off. “What do you want us to do with the prisoners, Major?”

Edward’s eyes fell to the still-screaming woman and her six surviving companions. “Just…” What should he do with them?

It was Hawkeye who came up with the answer. She, though, wouldn’t meet his eye when she gave the order. “It’s too much of a risk that one of them might get free and alert the Aerugonian forces to our presence while we head back,” she said, voice even. “Shoot them all.”


	10. The End Justifies the Means. (Except When it Doesn't.)

> _SOUTH WESTERN PASSAGE COMMAND: PRELIMINARY DAMAGE REPORT_
> 
> _The following report details the damage sustained to the South Western Passage Command, under the command of Brigadier General Roy Mustang, during the attack by the Royal Aerugonian Forces on May 20, 1915._   
>    
> 
> 
> _1.1 Damage to or Loss of Structures:_
> 
> _Several buildings within the Passage Command suffered damage during the battle, primarily due to enemy mortar fire. The buildings damaged by mortar fire are as follows:_
> 
>   * _Command headquarters_
>   * _Field hospital_
>   * _Storage facility 1_
>   * _Storage facility 2_
>   * _Garage 2_
>   * _Garage 5_
>   * _Officers’ barracks_
>   * _Soldiers’ barracks 12_
>   * _Soldiers’ barracks 13_
>   * _Soldiers’ barracks 18_
> 

> 
> _The perimeter wall was damaged by extreme temperatures brought about by flame and machinegun fire, as well as by mortar fire. However, the damage has been classified as minor by command engineers._   
>    
> 
> 
> _1.2 Necessary Repairs to Damaged Structures:_
> 
> _Due to the method used to construct the buildings, and the nature of the damage to the affected buildings, all repairs will be made by alchemists._
> 
> _Cost: Not applicable._
> 
> _Estimated time to completion of repairs: 1 week.  
>   
> _
> 
> _1.3 Replacement of Lost Structures:_
> 
> _Not applicable. All structures are to be repaired by alchemists._
> 
> _Cost: Not applicable._
> 
> _Estimated time to replacement of lost buildings: Not applicable._

— First Lieutenant R. Hawkeye (approved by Brig. Gen. R. Mustang) to South-Western Regional Headquarters. May 22, 1915.

* * *

 

The sun was just rising as Edward and his soldiers stepped out of the thick forest covering the Sibillini Range. A weak grey light filtered from between the hills at their backs, and faint shadows stretched out before them as they slipped around the last few trees.

The scene around the Passage Command was as bleak as the early morning light that barely lit the clearing around their base; the once-verdant grass was trampled and dead, slick in places and stained with blood, or ripped and torn and pocked by the unmistakable remnants of explosions. In a few places, the ground was bare and brittle, blackened with soot and dusted with ash.

Blue-clad forms dotted the entire area, streaming in and out of the bullet-riddled northern gate, rushing between checkpoints and commanding officers, or else moaning and wailing and clutching at bloody limbs or sporting bandage-handkerchiefs stained pink. Too many of them were motionless, slumped against the scarred corpses of half-tracks and olive drab trucks, crumpled against the ruined ground, white hands still holding onto rifles and pistols, war cries still dangling from bloodless lips. Hundreds upon hundreds of them—and not just blue forms, either, but those clad in pale beige too—were strewn across the place like leaves after a blustery autumn day, or like broken toy soldiers in some spoilt child’s play room, like—

Edward’s fingers tingled. His stomach roiled. He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts away. He couldn’t lose his shit right now; there could still be Aerugonians hiding in the trees at their backs, ready to get in a few last shots. Trapped and wide-eyes and muttering curses. Wanting to take out just one more enemy soldier. Shoot them all.

“Edward.” He barely felt the hand that pressed against his left epaulet, but he still had the sense to shrug it off. Hawkeye’s voice was gentle, and it flittered around his ears. “We need to keep moving.”

He didn’t realize he had stopped moving until he bullied his numb legs back into action, stomping across the flattened grass, heading for the northern gate. Somewhere behind him, Hawkeye and the other soldiers and the captured horses and captured mortar units fell back in line.

She’d kept away from him after the mortar team had been taken out; had kept silent as he ordered, jaw tense and voice tight, to collect the horses and load up the mortars—no point in leaving them behind, after all—and had given him space while they hiked back down the hillside. She understood, didn’t she? She had to understand, just how wrong it was, what she had ordered. To _murder_ unarmed people like that—

He stuffed a trembling hand into a pocket, avoided the gazes of the other soldiers as he picked his way around the pale faces lying in the dirt, joined the stream of soldiers making their way into the command. The ring of metal on metal, the snorting and stamping of horses, the sound of footfalls and voices and moving bodies floated and tumbled through the air, and he fell behind a squad of men carrying toolboxes and chatting about pistons.

One of the sentries called out to him when he stepped through the heavy gate, voice filled with an urgency that only military life could instill in a man. Oh, how Edward wanted to ignore him, wanted to bury his head under a pillow and stop thinking. But the soldier was nearing him now, saying things. What was he saying?

Inhale. Exhale. Nestled in his pocket, his flesh fist tightened.

“—office, sir. Lieutenant Hawkeye is expected to present herself, as well.”

Office. Office? Had to be Mustang’s.

“Uh, right. Fine. Thanks, Private.” He didn’t even bother dismissing the man. Instead, he turned on his heel, scanning for Hawkeye while trying to avoid her eye.

She’d pulled the squad of soldiers aside. The horses were freed of their burdens. The boxes of mortar ammunition and the weapons themselves were set aside to be inspected. The animals were tied to posts, and one of the men was sent to retrieve a few soldiers from the mounted cavalry.

She caught his eye—dammit—and trotted over like a good soldier when he waved her over with an automail hand. Stopped farther away from him that she should have. Tried to offer him a slight smile.

He’d already starting moving before she’d even had the chance to say anything, though, and tossed her a curt sentence over his shoulder. “The sentry said Mustang wants us to report to his office.”

The command’s Headquarters was just as hectic as the rest of the command, and the cacophony of hoarse voices and squealing machinery and heavy footfalls bounced off the stone walls above his head.  So hectic, in fact, that they could still hear the noise even after they both trumped up the narrow staircase and Hawkeye shut the door to their commanding officer’s empty office.

The blonde lieutenant sighed as she unclipped her helmet and dropped it onto one of the rickety chairs before Mustang’s desk. She ran a hand through sweat-slicked hair, making her shorn locks stick out at odd angles, and tried to face him. “Edward—”

But he was already striding over to the desk, flipping through the mess of sheets spread across it—the bastard would probably have him deal with most of the paperwork anyway, so he might as well know—tight golden eyes scanning preliminary damage reports and notices of communications between outposts. They still couldn’t get in touch with Rivers.

“I understand this can’t have been easy for you—”

He picked up a sheaf of papers, scrawled with a hasty hand and speckled with black ink. A rough list of the number of Amestrians injured or lost during the battle. Two-hundred-and-seventy-eight, including the Lieutenant Colonel and twenty-seven other officers. No wonder Mustang wasn’t here yet, if his second-in-command was down.

He threw that single-page report back onto the desk. The one beneath it held an estimation of enemy numbers. Two battalions to their south, a single battalion to their west, plus the downed mortar team. Definitely a distraction then; there was no way the Aerugonians could have beat them with those numbers.

“You can’t continue to act this way for much longer, Edward. You still have responsibilities—”

The office door opened with a whine and Mustang, nose streaked with soot and hair dark with sweat, stepped through. The sound of his footfalls cut through the heavy air and, eyes scrutinizing the two of them, he leaned against his desk.

“Report.”

“Well, obviously the mission was a success, or else you’d still have fucking mortar fire raining down on you.” The sheaf of papers in Edward’s hand slapped against the desk, sprawling over its surface. His voice trembled with the effort it took to keep it steady.

Mustang let loose a sigh. Hawkeye spoke up. “There were… complications, sir.”

“‘Complications’?” The very word was acid on Edward’s tongue. His eyes, which had been very intently studying the map of southern Amestris tacked against the wall, landed on her. “Is _that_ what they were? ‘Complications’?”

Before Mustang could stop him, he stepped forward. He was only inches away from her now, and she still wouldn’t even glance in his direction. “They were people! They were unarmed, injured, and you had them fucking murdered! And now you can’t even—”

“Fullmetal—”

A hand on his arm. He tried to shake it off, but it held tight, squeezing his bicep until it was almost painful. “You’re just writing them off as ‘complications’! Like that’ll—”

The hand jerked sharply, pulling him back, away from Hawkeye. “Sit down, Fullmetal,” Mustang ordered, and his fingers loosened only the barest amount.

Edward jerked his arm out of that grasp, and rounded on Hawkeye once more. Before he’d managed to take a step, the older alchemist caught him by the collar of his mud-stained uniform, pulling him back and all but throwing him into the empty wooden chair.

“I said _sit down_ , Fullmetal!” Mustang snarled. His dark eyes narrowed in warning, daring the mercurial young man to disobey.

“But she killed—”

“And losing your temper is going to change that?”

Edward met his commanding officer’s dark eyes squarely, his own golden ones narrowed with impotent fury. Finally, with a muttered string of curses, they fell, and he fixed them instead on the floorboards near the cluttered bookshelves. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest.

“Now,” Mustang said. He leaned back against the desk. “Fullmetal, tell me what the hell happened out there.”

 “What happened?” He couldn’t have stopped the derisive snort if he’d wanted to—not that he did. “Your lieutenant had a handful of injured, disarmed Aerugonians shot at point-black fucking range is what happened.”

“Is this true, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see.” A pause, tense and heavier than even the dimpled corpses strewn about beyond the perimeter wall. “You remember, don’t you, that I specifically mentioned that Fullmetal was in command of this mission?”

“I do, sir.”

“It seems to me that he didn’t give you permission to take charge of the Aerugonian prisoners.”

“That’s correct, sir.” Finally, her steadfast gaze shifted so that she was at least looking at Mustang now.

Another pause, then the man finally spoke up, scrubbing at his bangs for a second as though trying to make up his mind. “I hope you understand, Lieutenant,” he said, “that you’ll have to face the consequences of your insubordination.”

“Of course, General.”

“Good.” He nodded. “Then get some food and rest, write up a report of the mission, and present yourself here after two o’clock this afternoon. You’ll be informed of the consequences then. You’re dismissed.”

She pressed her fingers to her forehead in a salute, then left the office without another word. Her heels disappeared through the archway, the door squealed closed, and Mustang released what could have only been a pent up sigh. He sagged for just a flash of a moment, then his dark eyes found Edward once more.

The young alchemist was still slumped in the wooden chair he’d been pushed into, his mismatched arms still pressed over his chest, golden bangs hiding his eyes. Not sulking, no. Just trying very _very_ hard to keep his tongue behind his teeth and his fiery temper banked.

“What would you have done with them, Fullmetal?” The way he said it, Mustang might have been asking him about the weather, or about the principles behind transmuting heated metal. The words were heavy, though, drops of hot lead that embedded themselves into Edward’s skin, burning and smarting.

He bit back a snarl. Breathed once, twice. “What does it matter? They’re already dealt with.”

“It matters,” Mustang said, “because I need to know what you would have done if the Lieutenant wasn’t there.”

“I…” He paused.

The same hesitation he’d felt back on the hillside gripped him. They were people—and innocent ones, too, after having been disarmed. He couldn’t kill them. But they were still enemies, and he wouldn’t be able to just let them go. Just leave them? Not an option; there would be no saying if they’d be able to get back to their own armies, or that a natural predator wouldn’t find them.

Through his shield of blond bangs, he glanced at the man. Those dark, knowing eyes were watching him, and a flash of white-hot anger licked at his chest, scorching his lungs. He tightened his jaw, and his fists; the bastard knew what he’d asked him to do. Mustang had _no right_ to look at him like that. “I can tell you what I wouldn’t do,” he snapped out. “I wouldn’t kill a bunch of people just because their uniform is the wrong colour.”

“While that may be admiral,” Mustang told him, though his eyebrows suggested that he thought the sentiment was anything but, “your ideals aren’t something shared by many Amestrian soldiers—and even fewer of the higher ups.”

Edward gritted his teeth. “Like I care what they think.”

“Then look at it a different way, Fullmetal.” Mustang groaned, scrubbed at the base of his neck, and slumped against his desk. “If you let them go, you would have run the risk of them either learning too much about our forces, thus putting us at risk of further attacks, or of having them follow your team and attack you while your guard was down. Just because you don’t want to kill them doesn’t mean that they have the same reservations.”

“I _know_ that—” Edward began, but Mustang cut him off.

“Your second option would have been to take them captive and bring them back to the command, of course, which would simply mean that you would be passing on the responsibility to something else—myself, perhaps, or one of the other officers here—to either have them questioned or discarded, depending on their rank.”

He squirmed in the too-small, uncomfortable seat. He wasn’t naïve; he knew how intelligence was sometimes collected during wars.

“You could have abandoned them on the hillside, leaving them to the wildlife and to exposure. There’s a chance that they would have escaped, evaded our scouts, and made it take to their own forces without dying along the way. That chance, though, would have been quite low, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

Not to mention that dying of exposure or dehydration, or at the claws and teeth of a predator, would make a bullet seem like a mercy… Undoubtedly, that was what the bastard was getting at.

“Or, finally,” Mustang went on, and his voice adopted a calm tone that almost sounded forced, “you could have done what Lieutenant Hawkeye did—ordered for them to be disposed of.” He held up a hand when Edward opened his mouth. “Not an ideal solution, by any means, but the one most likely to get your team back alive and unharmed and, ironically, the most merciful option for them.”

There was near silence in the small office, save for the voices drifting up from the still-busy communications room on the first. He hated—absolutely _loathed_ —to admit it, but the man had a point, sort of.

But…

“They’re still people,” he muttered, “they have families and friends and people that they want to get home to.”

“What about your own men? They don’t have their own families to return to when this is all over? Because they won’t be able to return to them, Fullmetal, if you freeze each time you have to make a difficult decision.”

The asshole was talking like he’d screwed up some alchemy experiment! Complications and difficult decisions? Is that really all that these people—Aerugonians or not—amounted to? “You bastard.” His voice echoed off of the maps, the bookshelves, the tiny window. His automail hand cut into the fibres of his heavy blue jacket. His heart pounded in his throat. “You don’t think I’ve figured that out? But there’s got to be another _way_ —”

“There isn’t.” Mustang’s voice left no room for argument. “This is a war. You and the people following you will die if you think that, for a single moment, the enemy will share your soft-heartedness.  That’s why Lieutenant Hawkeye acted. She was saving your ass.”

“They weren’t a threat! They were already—”

“They’re the enemy,” Mustang snapped out, and his cool mask crumbled just slightly, and Edward couldn’t say that he liked what he saw between the cracks—a man with a few premature silver hairs lighting his temples, hands chained by orders that couldn’t be ignored. “They’re _always_ a threat. If there was another way to get out of this, it’s certainly not up to you to find it. It’s up to you to keep yourself, and your subordinates, alive.”

“Just because you want to take the easy way out—”

The man snorted. “Believe me, Fullmetal, this is anything but. Get some food and rest, and report back here at noon. You’re dismissed.”

“But—”

Black eyes narrowed in warning. “I don’t have time to debate ethics with you right now. I said you’re dismissed.”

Edward spat out a curse, but pulled himself to his feet nonetheless. His hand was on the doorknob when Mustang spoke up again. “I know it’s a poor consolation, Edward, but keep in mind that they started this. They’re the ones who wanted this war.”

He didn’t say anything as he trudged out of the room and left the bustling building. Still, the words were barbs in his brain, weaving and twining around his mind, pricking him each time he tried to throw them away. Poor consolation, he thought darkly as he shucked off his jacket and collapsed into his cot.

Yeah, that’s one fuckin’ way to put it.

 

* * *

 

Gunfire cracked through the early morning air, and unnatural stone formations—fists and spires and towering slabs—were clustered in the clearing. Beige-clad bodies, pocked and dirty and glassy eyed, crumpled on the pine-covered ground, or else draped over boxes of ammunition and leaned against the deadly spired. The mortars lay still, smoke still wisping from some of their barrels. The sudden silence was almost deafening.

Edward took a steadying breath, wiped the sweat from his forehead, turned to face his team. They’d be waiting for commands by now, surely, and they had a lot to do before they could head back to the Passage Command. “I want two groups of two set up as sentries; I didn’t see any radios, but they might be in contact with their main forces, and—”

He froze. His eyes went wide.

His team was missing.

He opened his mouth, ready to call out to them, but then snapped his jaw shut, his voice dying in his throat. It might seem quiet now, with the silent mortars and snorting horses and rustling leaves, but he was still on a battlefield. He couldn’t forget that. All he had to do was stop for ten seconds, decide what he was to do. As trained soldiers, he knew that they would not have left their commander without either an extremely good reason or without warning—or both. So he could only assume that something had driven them away from him.

Squinting through the darkness, he tried to find any evidence of where they had gone, hoping for some indicator or _anything_ that might give him a lead. Surely, they would have paused and left him something to follow them by, even if they were forced to leave him behind. But, whether he missed it or the poor lighting could not reveal it or it was simply not there, Edward found nothing to lead him on. The ground where they had been standing was completely bare and unmarked, as if they had not been there to begin with—

Hang on… unmarked? He frowned, searching the clearing again. Something was definitely wrong. Even if they had simply walked off and left him there, there should still have been some evidence that they had been _there_. But there was nothing—no stray bullet casings, no footprints in the soft loam. Not a single damned thing.

A klaxon blared in his mind. He knew of only one way what to clear any traces of human life so effectively, and it involved alchemy.

He cursed lowly, keeping his voice down, listening for anything that might alert him to another person’s presence. As much as he absolutely abhorred admitting it, if another alchemist had found his men, then they were most likely dead already. With no idea where the enemy had gone to, he could do nothing more than make his solitary way back to the outpost, inform Mustang as quickly as possible, and hope that the General had the resources to send enough men out to find and take care of this new threat.

Ignoring the knots in his stomach and the pounding of his heart, he slinked to the horses and quickly removed their tack. He might not be able to bring them back to the command, but at least they’d have a chance now. The animals just stared at him, watching with calm eyes—clearly, they didn’t sense a threat, but he wasn’t going to risk it.

With that, he slipped into the trees, tracing his steps, cutting through the forest and finding the dried streambed they’d used to sneak up there, sticking to the edges so that he wouldn’t make a shadow and moving as fast as he could on silent feet. He was moving quickly now that he did not have to make sure to keep everyone together, but this thought did not improve his mood at all.

Suddenly, a sharp noise—a twig snapping—crackled through the air to his left. His stomach was twisted almost double now; he could barely breathe around his frantically drumming heart. He drew himself short. Then, when his eyes couldn’t pick out a suitable hiding spot, pulled himself up into the branches of a sweeping stone pine.

Another crackle, then a shower of noise as a cascade of rocks further up the hillside was kicked loose. Whoever was behind him sure as hell wasn’t doing a very good job of being stealthy.

He took a few steadying breaths, tried to will his heart back down into his chest. He could hear soft footsteps now, padding lightly on the granite stones that made up the creek bed. Whoever it was, they were growing closer. Searching him out, maybe. Hunting him.

Ignoring the handgun at his waist—his own skills with the weapon were mediocre at best, and only then because of the hasty training he had been forced to submit to, with Lieutenant Hawkeye as his instructor—he eased himself onto the balls of his feet, preparing to spring into action. He wasn’t _anyone’s_ prey.

His hunter neared, finally revealing a hazy body in the fading moonlight, distorted by the branches and his deafening heart. It was female, and soon showed itself to be donned in the worn out, ruined blue of an Amestrian officer’s military uniform. But the blond hair made itself clear, as did the heavy bloodstains that lined the soldiers face and sleeves and torso; the clotted mess that covered her hip and temple; the limp in her slow, staggered steps; and unsteady gasps for breath that escaped from her mouth. Forgetting all pretenses of caution, he dropped from his perch and dashed forward, somehow managing to catch her as she finally staggered and fell.

“Lieutenant Hawkeye!” He kept his voice low, lowering the both of them to the ground. “You’ve got to stay awake, okay? You’ve got to stay awake so that I can get you some help.”

In the distance, he could hear deep, pulsing, ear-aching explosions. The Aerugonians must have had a backup team nearby, to be able to get back to their heavy weapons so quickly. The noise pounded in his ears, roaring above Hawkeye’s faint voice as she muttered a few words.

With trembling fingers, he looked over the deep wound that decorated her temple, a series of them, deep and jagged and parallel and—had she been attacked by an animal because it sure as hell looked like a swipe from a bear or something—

“Edward…” Her voice was weak, faint. She coughed, and blood bubbled up from between her lips.

“Just shut up, okay?” He muttered, one eye on her, the other on the black trees bowing around them. “I’ll patch you up and we’ll get back to the command.”

“You don’t understand… We’re all dead.” She was _choking_ on her own blood and oh shit, what could he do to stop that? “They’re not like us…”

Her eyes glazed over, her heart stopped beating. She stopped wheezing and choking on the blood in her throat. She slumped back, bruised and bloody and broken like some abused doll whose strings had been cut. And the mortar was thundering away in his ears, deafening and far louder than he remember it ever being—

And he woke with a jolt, heart still pounding and stomach twisting so badly that he thought he might be sick, limbs shaking and bangs stuck to his sweaty forehead. But the pounding didn’t go away. It reverberated off the plain stone walls of his tiny room and it was only then that he realized it wasn’t actually mortar fire, but someone pounding urgently against his door—

He pushed himself out from beneath the scratchy wool blankets, stumbled into a pair of blue trousers, yanked the door open. Wide golden eyes met Caddock’s tight blue ones and he blinked, once, twice, trying to cram the nightmare into the darkest, smallest corner of his mind.

“What’s going on?” He finally managed to croak out.

“The General sent out teams to the Rivers Outpost a few hours ago to check on them. It was…” His lieutenant’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “There’s hardly anything left of it, they’re saying.”

Edward choice of curse words would have made his brother blush.

Caddock didn’t even seem to notice. “There’s more. They found what’s left of Havoc’s platoon. And, well, he’s asking for you.”

Edward pushed past the man on his way out of the building.

Screaming and bleeding and filling the acrid air with desperate threats and northern whore’s sons and kill them all—

No. He forced his lungs to work. Inhale. Exhale. Stop thinking about it. There was still work to do.


	11. An Array is Worth (A Thousand Curse Words).

 

> _INTERROGATIONS REPORT—PRISONER B-697_
> 
> _SOUTH-WESTERN PASSAGE COMMAND_
> 
> _May 24, 1915_
> 
> _Interrogators: Brigadier General R Mustang, Sergeant R Garroway_
> 
> _Present: First Lieutenant R Hawkeye, Second Lieutenant H Breda_
> 
> _Overseeing physician: Dr K Austin_
> 
> _Beginning time: 0632_
> 
> _Ending time: 1147_
> 
> _Prisoner B-697 proved to be stubborn and refused to answer any and all questions, whether or not they pertained to the Aerugonian movements, battle tactics, or the alleged use of alchemy by Aerugo’s forces. It took quite some time to convince Prisoner B-697 to answer the questions posed._
> 
> _At approximately eight hundred hours, the prisoner discovered that it was within its best interests to respond to questions, though further encouragement was required throughout the interrogation._
> 
> _The prisoner is a low-ranking officer in the Royal Aerugonian Forces. However, some basic knowledge of their military tactics were known, and shared with interrogators when the proper questions were posed._
> 
> _Attached to this report are several maps alleging to contain the following:_
> 
> _—the positions and numbers of certain Aerugonian troops_
> 
> _—future movements and attacks_
> 
> _—the locations of several enemy outposts and commands in the south-western region_
> 
> _Please confirm these findings._
> 
> _At approximately eleven hundred hours, the prisoner became hysterical and delusional; any medications Dr Austin gave to correct proved to be ineffective. As a result, any responses recorded after this time are dubious in their reliability._
> 
> _When questioned about the rock formation found near the Plains Outpost, the prisoner claimed that the Royal Aerugonian Forces had several companies of “god-like” western alchemists at their disposal. However, the prisoner then appeared to change its mind and proclaimed that Aerugonian forces had only a small number of alchemists, and that they used a branch of alchemy that no westerner would be familiar with._
> 
> _As the Fullmetal Alchemist has been able to decipher how the enemy alchemists are performing their transmutation, the second statement seems dubious. However, the Flame Alchemist is currently researching all alchemy-related claims._
> 
> —Filed by First Lieutenant R Hawkeye, signed by Brigadier General R Mustang, sent to Intelligence Department, South West Region Headquarters, May 27, 1915. 

* * *

 

 

The sun was still crawling over the perimeter wall when Edward burst from the officer’s barracks, buttoning his blue jacket and searching his pockets for a stray hair tie. Even with the adrenaline coursing through his limbs—the Rivers Outpost, one of their forward operating bases and “home” to four thousand soldiers, just _gone_? It was unthinkable—his eyes felt heavy and mind felt sluggish. He couldn’t have been asleep for more than a couple of hours.

A covered flatbed, filled with helmeted soldiers sporting rifles and set faces, roared down the main service road; it left a trail of dust in its wake. At the southern gate, a guard waved the flatbed through. Another truck followed, then a third, then two more.

At the edge of the paddock on the other side of the service road, twenty warhorses were saddled and shaking their heads, waiting impatiently for their riders to fill saddlebags with water, food, and spare munition. In the paddock, the dozen howitzers set up last night under Mustang’s orders still stood, their heavy barrels pointed toward the skies, rising meters above the hundreds of heads bobbing this way and that throughout the command.

He shook himself, tied his hair back, and glanced southward toward the headquarters. If Havoc was unharmed, he would be there, being debriefed before all of Mustang’s senior staff. If he was hurt, though…

“Major?” Caddock caught up with him. He nodded north. The hospital loomed in that direction. “This way.”

“… Right.” He swallowed around his thick tongue, forced his legs into action.

The pained moans and sharp orders passed between doctors and nurses slapped him across the face when he entered the field hospital; the smell of blood and bile, antiseptics and antibiotics clung to his nostrils with such vehemence that he didn’t know if he would ever get it out. A passing nurse with arms full of linen bandages and a streak of blood down her apron tossed a few instructions over her shoulder when they asked where Havoc was, and their heavy boots beat against the stone floors as they weaved around busy bodies and headed toward the back of the building.

The plain wooden door they’d been directed to was open, and he saw the back of Mustang’s dark head when he glanced inside. Hawkeye was there too, of course, face slightly pinched and standing half a step behind her superior officer. A single nurse bustled about the room, offering scissors and bandages and—Edward shuddered—a threaded needle at a balding doctor’s request. For a flash of a second, he spied Havoc from between the bodies, limbs shaking and blood splattered in his hair and holy fuck, how was he even alive with his arm like that and—

He steeled himself and forced his legs forward.

Havoc was muttering half to himself, his face pale and taut. When the sound of Edward’s uneven footfalls announced his arrival, the doctor gave him a look that could make a feral dog cower, then quickly looked over to Mustang.

“Honestly, General,” the man started. Artificial light reflected off the crown of his head as he spoke. “I understand the importance of this, but this man hasn’t even been properly treated yet. Your presence I can understand, but does every officer in the entire command have to—”

“No!” Havoc snapped out. His blue eyes, wide and wild and startling in their intensity, darted between the doctor and to where Edward had frozen. “No, it’s important, doc. The Chief’s gotta know too. He’ll be able to—fuck, I don’t know—”

But Mustang was already placing a hand on his good shoulder, stealing his attention. “Jean,” he said, and his voice was calming, soothing, and alarmingly human. “You did the right thing. Now, Fullmetal’s here like you wanted, so just relax and tell us what happened.”

Havoc closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “It was like clockwork, sir,” he finally croaked. “They must have spies or something among the officers, because they knew exactly what we were going to do before we did it. They shot us full of howitzer rounds first, so Colonel Wiking shut the gates and prepared a battalion and a cavalry brigade to push them back, and then—” he swallowed audibly, his eyes darted around the room, and Edward felt his stomach lurch into his chest cavity when he realized “—just beyond the perimeter walls, this second set of walls sprouted out of the ground, sir, and surrounded the whole damn base. We could hear it piecing itself together—it was so loud that it almost drowned out the rounds they were still dropping on us—and it just…”

They were all silent for a moment. The man was shaking visibly, and his eyes fixed themselves firmly on his good hand as though his flexing digits were the only things keeping him together. Edward desperately tried to remember a time where Havoc was shaken up at all, because he was one of the bravest men he _knew_ and nothing should have been able to scare the second lieutenant like this.

“Havoc.” Everyone—including himself—started when his voice, low and even, broke the silence. Several sets of eyes watched him, but he ignored all but one. “I need to know what happened so that I can find a way to stop these bastards from doing it ever again.”

Wide blue eyes bored into his own golden ones.

He didn’t look away. “You know I can do it.”

Havoc took another steadying breath, nodded. “Blacklung tried to do something about it, I think. He started sketching some arrays on the ground even though it was damn near impossible to see with all the dust in the air… but they didn’t end up doing anything. So he… he told me to round up my men as fast as I could, and he blew a hole in the perimeter wall and the wall they’d made, and told us to haul ass here to make sure you all knew what was going on. He said he’d stay back to deal with the Aerugonian alchemists. He—shit—where’d it—”

He rummaged around for a few seconds, searching the pockets of his bloody, dirty, blackened trousers while the balding doctor insisted that he not exert himself. Finally, he pulled a crumpled sheet, splattered with mud and other things Edward would really rather not think about, from one of his pockets, and threw it toward the foot of the cot as though it contained something poisonous.

“Blacklung said to make sure you got that, Chief. Said you’d understand it.” He added, and all eyes were on Edward again as, gingerly, he unfolded the scrap of paper.

It was a transmutation circle, smudged and imperfect and certainly drawn in a hurry, but it was still one of the most complicated ones he’d come across in… certainly since becoming a state alchemist, at least.

His eyes followed the bold lines, studied the sigils, dissected the runes, and all the while his mind tried to understand what he was seeing. It made sense, he supposed, in a weird way, and Blacklung couldn’t have had the time to really think about what he was sketching so he must’ve just done the best he could…  But it was impossible.

“Fullmetal?” Mustang’s voice brought him back to the present and, with a grunt, he passed the crumpled array to the older alchemist.

He turned back to Havoc, steeled himself before asking a question that he knew he would regret. “What happened after you got out of Rivers?”

“Just… what Blacklung said to do, Chief. We hauled ass.”

Was the man trying to avoid question? “Did you happen to look back to see what was going on at the command?”

Havoc shuddered. “Y-yeah. We got to the treeline before we starting hearing the… before the screaming started. It was like the light you two make when you transmute, but it flashed… brown-ish, and it surrounded the whole command, for… I don’t know how long. We turned tail and started north before it stopped.”

Brown? He couldn’t help but trade glances with Mustang at those words, and he knew they were both wondering the same thing. What kind of alchemy—or what combination of transmutations, if it were a group of alchemists—could cause that kind of alchemical light?

“How long were you there?”

“I don’t know. Not long. We left as soon as the screaming stopped. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

Edward swallowed an oath.

“I see,” Mustang spoke up, and clapped the man lightly on his good shoulder. “You did well. Let the doctor patch you up now. We’ll deal with this, understood?”

Havoc blinked a few times, nodded. “Sure thing, sir.”

Edward knew a farewell when he heard it so, when Mustang strode from the sterile room, he found himself falling into step beside him. Caddock and Hawkeye brought up their rear.

Mustang’s voice sounded above their heavy footfalls and below the pained noises that still filtered through the astringent air. “That array that Blacklung sketched for you. What do you make of it?”

“It’s...” Edward scratched at his bangs, hoping that the feeling of his metal fingers against his forehead would help him gather his wayward thoughts. It didn’t. “It’s missing something. Can’t tell what, though. There were definitely markers for agricultural alchemy in there, but I have no idea why, and—”

Mustang glanced at him when he didn’t continue. He could feel Caddock and Hawkeye’s eyes against the back of his neck.

“And what?” The older alchemist finally asked.

The nurses were still bustling from room to room. Doctors shouted orders. Soldiers covered in cheap canvas were being carried from rooms to make space for still-breathing bodies. Someone called out something about morphine, only to be told that the warehouse storing it had been damaged in the attack—there wasn’t any more. The almost-frantic shrieks of an amputation without anesthetic followed.

Mustang glared. Edward glanced around the busy hallways once more before speaking up. “He had the symbols for salt, mercury, and sulfur written along the edges of the circle.”

When he finally dared to glance at his commanding officer—if that bastard made him spell it out with all these people around, then he would punch him in the face, threats of being locked in the brig be damned—those black eyes were fixed on him, narrowed with some emotion that he couldn’t read. He glared back for good measure, but couldn’t help but release a breath when Mustang finally said “I see” and let the matter drop.

He did understand, then, why there was something so incredibly _weird_ and _wrong_ about the transmutation circle Blacklung had sketched out right before he’d fought to his death. Because, really, there was no reason why an array to manipulate earth and “understand” the chemical makeup of anything within an area would require the three primes—the symbols of body, mind, and soul.

The hospital door swung open, and the four of them stamped through it, into the early summer air and into the controlled chaos gripping the Passage Command. They moved out of the way so a soldier could lead his comrade, bleeding from the temple and moving on stumbling feet, into the building. By the southern gate, the hooves of twenty warhorses thundered against the beaten ground as two cavalry squads moved out.

Finally, Mustang spoke up again. His mouth was narrowed and eyes distant. “Fullmetal, as soon as the area around Rivers has been secured, I want you to take Hawkeye’s and Caddock’s platoons, and a cavalry platoon, to investigate what their alchemists did to that outpost and set up a temporary surveillance post. Plan to be stationed there for two weeks.”

 

* * *

 

 

It took three days for the swath of riverside and tumbling hills and rolling forest to be combed for straggling Aerugonian soldiers. And, although he’d rolled his eyes and scoffed when Mustang’s orders to keep searching the land south of their command—it was, he’d thought, almost neurotic and surely excessive—he was soon glad he hadn’t had the opportunity to voice his thoughts out loud, since the  teams did return with beige-clad prisoners in tow on occasion. Edward made a point of avoiding the southern gate and its victorious soldiers, however, whenever they returned from these “successful” missions.

He wasn’t naïve enough not to know what would happen to these men and women, after all, and the thought made his stomach tighten.

It wasn’t like he didn’t have plenty to do to keep his mind off of these… unpleasantries, anyway. On the evening of Havoc’s return to the Passage Command, they received word from Brigadier General Aichi, the officer in charge of their western flank—Nera Outpost, the forward operating base closest to Rivers, had been attacked. Recovery teams had yet to find any survivors, and didn’t expect this to change.

Even as Mustang announced this to his officers, Edward’s mind drifted back to the evening of the battle, standing in the tactical room with its oversized table and its walls covered with maps, and then even farther back to the stuffy letter he’d received from the department in charge of intelligence for the south-western region. That night had found him sequestered in Mustang’s office, comparing the disappearances of scout teams, confirmed attacks on Amestrian outposts, and radio outages. The following day found him—along with a fidgeting Fuery and an uninterested Renault, the dark-skinned communications officer from Caddock’s platoon—testing the effects of strong alchemical discharges on the military’s radios.

It wasn’t until the afternoon of that third day, however, that Edward was able to finally corner the bastard General in his cramped little office—the space was fucking _stifling_ , now that it was June, and how was Mustang still able to wear his blue jacket pinned up like that?—so that he could shove this latest bit of insight at the man and get back to work. Mustang didn’t even look at him, though, hidden behind a thick report as he was, before snapping out “I’m busy, soldier. Get out.”

Edward just rolled his eyes at the tone. “Trust me, Bastard, you can drop whatever you’re pretending to work on for five minutes. This is more important.”

“Would that also have to do with why I’ve had Major Airabonita claiming you’ve stolen one of her communications officers—and two of the portable radios—and refused to tell her why?” Mustang peered over the report, revealing a furrowed brow and blood-shot eyes.

Edward couldn’t help but stare. “You look like shit. You know that?”

“My appearance is really none of your concern, Fullmetal,” Mustang told him, and a hand came up to pinch the bridge of his nose. The cuff peeking out beneath the silver of his jacket’s sleeve was a rusty brown; Edward forced his gaze somewhere over the man’s shoulder instead. “Answer the question.”

He swallowed around his dry tongue. “I had to run some experiments. I needed the radios and Fuery for that.”

The general dropped the report onto his desk and leaned forward. His blue sleeves covered his wrists again, and the silver lining hid the bloody cuff. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“We lost radio communications with Rivers, then they got attacked. The same thing happened with the Nera Outpost to the west, and with the scouts that the Plains Outpost sent out. Those reports Intelligence sent to me listed a few missing squads, too, and their outposts reported the same radio problems.

“That got me thinking,” Edward continued. “If the enemy alchemists are stopping their transmutations at the first step, there would be a bunch of energy that isn’t getting used—and all that energy has to go somewhere, so I guessed they were just letting it dissipate into the air. If enough energy were to build up, it would act like one long, continuous lightning strike. Something like that could disrupt radio waves.”

Mustang nodded. “And were you able to recreate the issue?”

“At a smaller scale, yeah. I managed to block the radio signals for a little under ten minutes with Fuery and Renault about ten meters apart.”

There was a moment of silence as the older alchemist digested this information. His mouth tightened, his brows furrowed, and Edward knew that the man had landed on the same problem that he himself had found yesterday evening.

“How many alchemists do you think would be required to pull of that kind of transmutation for hours?” Mustang finally asked.

Edward shrugged. “Maybe half of all the State Alchemists. Maybe more. They’ve got their hands on some sort of alchemical amplifier. That’s the only way they could do something like this.”

“I see.” The General scrubbed at his face with a hand, let loose a sigh. His other hand grabbed for one of the reports scattered across his desk and brought it before his dark eyes. “I haven’t heard anything specifically about amplifiers in any of the latest Intelligence reports, but there have been rumours that their alchemists are abnormally powerful.”

“You got that from ‘Intelligence reports’?” The words were out of Edward’s mouth before he realized he was thinking them, but he didn’t regret it when Mustang’s grip tightened around the papers. His eyes narrowed and his arms crossed over his chest—no fucking “Intelligence report” would tell them that about enemy alchemists.

But then Mustang was talking again, acting for all the world as though his young major hadn’t said a thing. “This could suggest the use of amplifiers. I’ll set aside for you any information about the matter that comes to the command. In the meantime, pack your bags and get your men ready. The search teams have confirmed that the area around Rivers is clear, and I want your surveillance post set up and operational by midday tomorrow.”

That was the only dismissal that Edward needed to hear. He was out the door before the words “you’re dismissed” left Mustang’s mouth, and was out of the command—accompanied by two platoons of infantry and one of cavalry—before the hour was up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random tid-bits of information:
> 
> 1) Dr Austin—Named after the Austin K2/Y, a heavy military ambulance used by the British in World War Two. 
> 
> 2) Colonel Wiking—The Blohm and Voss BV 222 Wiking was a six-engined flying boat used by the Germans during World War Two.
> 
> 3) Three primes of alchemy—Also called the tria prima, the three primes (mercury, sulphur, salt) were, according to the alchemist Paracelsus, what formed all physical substances.


	12. Better Late Than (Shot in the Back).

> _Dear Mr. and Mrs. O’Connor,_
> 
> _It is with the greatest regrets that I inform you of the death of your son, Major Piran O’Connor, the Blacklung Alchemist. He died proudly, serving his country and protecting its people with unwavering faith and devotion._
> 
> _The Blacklung Alchemist was an exemplary soldier and a fine friend to those he worked with. He will be remembered for his eagerness to help others no matter the task, and will be sorely missed by both his fellow soldiers and his superior officers. He won’t be forgotten._
> 
> _Please accept my most sincere condolences, and know that, should you need it, the many soldiers at West City Headquarters are prepared to offer you assistance in these hard times._
> 
> _Most sincerely,_
> 
> _Brigadier General Roy Mustang_
> 
> _Flame Alchemist (Battle Grade)_
> 
> —Brig. Gen. R. Mustang to civilians B. and L. O’Connor, June 2, 1915

* * *

 

The ride south to where the Rivers Outpost once stood, Edward decided, couldn’t have been more different from their trip to the Plains Outpost some three weeks previous. It was definitely more scenic than miles upon miles of rolling hills and scraggly, wind-swept trees, if nothing else. The voices of the enlisted soldiers marching behind him were light, and the gentle wind carried bits of jokes and idle conversation to his ears, along with the coaxing of the supplies soldiers who managed their pack animals. The sound of horse hooves and snorting mounts granted to the company’s officers—Edward included—sounded above everything.

He scowled and swallowed a curse.

Seriously, if he ever had to ride a horse again in his entire life, it would be _way_ too fucking soon.

Sure, he understood why Hawkeye and Caddock had recommended taking horses to where they’d been stationed—after all, if one of the search teams missed something and there were still enemies about, the agile animals would have a much easier time scarpering around trees and up the steep slopes of the Sibilinni Range. But the gelding he’d been assigned by the Passage Command’s horse master was an ill-tempered, fidgety animal who had apparently decided that listening to any rider was a waste of time.

And, really, who the hell thought it’d be a good idea to name a warhorse _Peony_? Why not something badass like Razor or Spitfire or Hellbringer? Or, he amended sourly as he yarded on the horse’s reins for what felt like the ten thousandth time, Pain in the Ass?

Somewhere behind him, someone laughed and, in a flurry of movement and pounding of hooves, Caddock expertly guided his own steed until he was riding comfortably at Edward’s elbow. His blue eyes crinkled with mirth. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Major—”

“I do. Shut up.”

“—for someone who insists he grew up in the country, you really don’t seem to be much of a fan of horses.”

The glare that Edward offered the man _should_ have sent him running back to the Passage Command with his tail between his legs. It didn’t.  “Has anyone ever told you that you don’t know when to shut up, Caddock?”

Caddock’s laughter rang through the air. Pain-in-the-Ass Peony shook his head at the noise and snorted his displeasure. At least that was something on which both the stupid horse and Edward could agree.

“All the time, Major. All the time,” Then, the joker’s air disappeared, taking with it the careless grin and relaxed slouch. “I thought you should know, sir, that we’ll be arriving at the old Rivers Outpost sooner than expected. I know the others already did a sweep of the area, but—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” He hated all this cautious tip-toeing around but, he supposed, there was no avoiding it; he wasn’t about to risk the lives of a hundred soldiers because he was itching to start work on the desolate outpost. “Go and send two horsemen ahead to find a place where we can stop for a while, and choose a squad to scout out the area around Rivers.”

Caddock’s hand brushed against his forehead in a lazy salute. “Aye aye, Major Kid,” he said, then kicked his horse and spun away to carry out the commands.

Edward could only hope that the additional command for the lieutenant to stop fucking calling him that also met the man’s ears.

The horsemen left and returned with a useable area in surprisingly short order, and quickly lead the entire company to a verdant outcropping that backed onto the Tevere. The horses could be watered, the men could relax beneath the clusters of trees, and sentries could climb the sturdy branches to keep watch for beige uniforms. The search of the area, however, took much longer. While it gave Edward plenty of time to exchange a few short words with most of the men who had accompanied him south, he really couldn’t blame Peony when the stupid warhorse started tossing his head with impatience.

In the end, Caddock’s recommendation to sweep the area accomplished two things; the first was that the squad of soldiers found a three-man team of Aerugonians keeping an eye on the Rivers Outpost, no doubt waiting for a group of blue-clad soldiers following the exact orders that Edward had been given.

All three of them cursed and spat as, hands bound from wrist to elbow and ankles tied so they could barely walk, they were pushed through the jeering crowd of a hundred Amestrian soldiers. They refused to answer Edward’s questions, though he suspected by the convenient timing of insults he couldn’t understand that they, at least, understood what he was saying perfectly. When a translator was procured in the form of Master Sergeant Renault, their insults only seemed to become more creative. In the end, he ordered they be tied to the backs of some of the pack horses and put under heavy guard.

As they mounted their horses and got underway again, he found Hawkeye trotting up to his right. “Let me take responsibility for the Aerugonians.” He could barely hear her voice over the jangle of tack and the thud of hooves. “You don’t have to be responsible for—”

But he was already shaking his head. “It looks like they were here to watch for anyone coming to investigate the Rivers Outpost, but why? Why would they need to know when we’re investigating?”

She was quiet for a moment, brows creased in thought. “Are you worried about a trap?”  

“I don’t know,” he said, “but it doesn’t feel right. And those three might have answers.”

“And if they don’t answer?”

He kept his eyes focused on the gently winding dirt road before him, and hoped she didn’t notice the way his hands tightened on the reins.

“Then we have no use for them.”

The second thing that Caddock’s recommendation accomplished was that his pain-in-the-ass warhorse was not the cause of his bad mood.

 

* * *

 

 

The sun was dangerously low in the sky when they finally reached their destination, painting bold red streaks across the clouds and turning the landscape below them a bloody red. The dot on the maps in Mustang’s office turned out to be midway up one of the Sibillini’s hills, overlooking the desolate outpost and giving a clear view for kilometers.

With a sigh, Edward swung himself off the stubborn gelding. His thighs protested at the movement and his knee popped as he dropped to the ground. All around him, the enlisted men—who, unlike the officers in his command, hadn’t had the “luxury” of a mount to carry them the fifty kilometers to where the empty shell of the Rivers Outpost now stood—dropped their heavy rucksacks and very much looked like they wanted to drop to their asses.

His golden eyes swept across the small clearing, taking in the uneven, rocky ground and the sharp cliffs that interrupted the thick foliage. They may be far enough from the old command and its vast plains to avoid immediate notice, but the hills were broken and rugged this far south, making the location of their proposed post risky at best. Beyond that, if their fires were too smoky or too large, the broken treeline and steep terrain might give away their position.

Beside him, Hawkeye slid off of her own horse, and in a far more graceful manner than he. A stable hand came forward to relieve them both of their mounts, and Edward nodded his thanks as his blonde lieutenant spoke up. “Two of my squads have just left to find good vantage points for the sentries. Once these points are found, one squad will stay back to take the first watch.”

He listened through one ear and mumbled the appropriate words of understanding as she spoke; they’d already discussed the setup of their surveillance post before leaving the Passage Command. He kept his eyes on the clearing, watching his men as they made to set up camp. The area was definitely too small for a hundred soldiers—not to mention their horses and equipment.

He turned back to Hawkeye. “We’re sure that this is the best area so set up camp? It’s way too small. ‘Sides, it’ll be a bitch to drill a well, and the Tevere’s nearly a kilometre from here.”

She just sighed. “As you know, the General has already reviewed the area with the scout teams before we were sent out,” she said finally, and her voice was in that same bland tone she used with Mustang sometimes. “He’s confident that you’ll be able to shape the ground around us as needed.”

He was still torn between being happy that they knew how good he was and being pissed off that they could look at a few metric tonnes of earth and think “hey, no problem, let the alchemist deal with it.”

He’d like to see Mustang and his fucking flames deal with it.

Instead, he let loose a long-suffering sigh.

“Yeah, yeah…” He scrubbed at the back of his neck, and resisted the urge to rub his rump, too. If he ever got in a saddle again… “Let’s get this over with, then. Send the men back a hundred meters, and make sure the horses are tied down. It’d be a huge pain in the ass if one of them spooked and bolted.”

The men were ushered back, the horses tied down, and Caddock and the lieutenant of the cavalry platoon—Stiker or Striker or Stuka or something like that—gave him the signal that it was safe for him to start his work.

Blinding blue-white energy collected between his fingers when he clapped his hands together, and exploded into the ground at his command. The earth groaned and complained around him, and the trees at the edge of the clearing shrieked in protest as their roots were rearranged. He reached out further, drawing more energy from within his own body and casting it out until it found resistance in the stones, pebbles and boulders, roots and branches, fine grains of earth, and then pushed and pulled, coaxing the earth until it melded under his direction. He could see it in his mind’s eye—the shifting of the earth as it flattened out and slowly forced the trees further and further away.

Finally, he gathered the remnants of alchemical energy back to him, pushed himself off the ground. Somewhere over his right epaulet, a low whistle pierced the air. It was Caddock who made his way forward, cautiously at first as though the ground would come alive again, shaking his head.

“And to think that, a couple of months ago, I was wondering why they would even stick some little loud-mouthed brat in an officer’s uniform,” the dark-haired lieutenant said, the joker’s grin playing on his lips. His eyes scanned the much larger clearing before setting upon a rounded earth wall, already covered with a few trees and hardy shrubs. It would do well to protect them against both the strong winds and the enemy’s prying eyes.

Edward glared at the man and offered him a rude gesture. Caddock only snorted his laughter.

“Go get them to start setting things up before I kick your ass,” Edward snapped, nodding his head to the various soldiers who were slowly making their way back into the glade. “Put the tents against the wall—that’ll help shield them from the wind. And I want the Aerugonians put in a place where everyone can keep an eye on them, but split them up. Make sure they can’t start talking to each other.”

“You sure about that, sir?” The joker’s smile vanished. Caddock blinked his surprise instead. “It’ll make it a lot harder to keep an eye on them.”

“Yeah,” Edward said firmly. He nodded his conviction and hoped that his gamble would pay off. “I’m sure. And make sure they get food and water—real food and decent water—once everything’s put away.”

“You got it, Major.” The brunette touched a few fingers to his forehead in a lazy salute, but Edward could still see the questions lurking behind the man’s eyes. Before he could say anything more though, Caddock was off, shouting an order to a gaggle of milling soldiers and directing a few burdened men where to drop their canvas-covered cargo.

As the sun made its last, brilliant display, the camp arose from canvas bundles and heavy rope. Dozens of tents were erected in tidy rows at the base of the dirt-and-twig wall Edward had transmuted, a hasty paddock was cobbled together with no small amount of alchemy, and Renault unpacked the portable radio from the back of an exhausted packhorse. A handful of fire pits were laid out while a few soldiers searched for an underground river and marked it for a well, and Hawkeye’s two squads reported back with updates to their current maps and suggestions for vantage points.

The cooks laid out a late dinner of tinned meat and old bread, and soon afterward the soldiers were gravitating toward the fire pits, food in their hands and crass jokes on their lips, though a few with questions as to why the Aerugonians dogs were getting the very same food. Didn’t their blond major think better of them that to feed them prisoner’s fare?

Edward, in turn, sidled into the cooks’ prep area—little more than a few collapsible tables sheltered beneath drab canvas—and made himself invisible while the three men and one woman there used a gas lanterns’ light to clean up the evening meal. He pulled out his notebook, ignoring the curious whispers and unhappy mutters, and turned his mind over to the mystery ahead.

After all, he reminded himself, he had better things to do than deal with a few grumblers.

Like making sure that they’d all get out of this mess alive.

Finding a place for the hundred soldiers to rest was easy; the two horsemen Caddock had sent managed to find a decent bend in the river with thick grass for the horses and deep shade for the men after just twenty minutes. Waiting for the ten scouts to return, however, turned out to be much more difficult.

Idly, he wondered when Caddock and the lieutenant in charge of the company’s third platoon—First Lieutenant Stiker? Stuka? Something like that—would finally show up with their own updates.

Whatever. They would find him when they got their asses in gear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random tid-bits of information:
> 
> 1) Second Lieutenant Stiker/Striker/Stuka—The Stuka was a type German dive bomber during World War 2, the most well known being the Junker 87.
> 
>  
> 
> Rah! I did it, folks! I managed to conquer this chapter! Leave me a review if you can figure out why Edward’s warhorse is named Peony (or even if you can’t). They’re always loved and appreciated!   
> And they occasionally remind me to get my ass in gear and actually post stuff.   
> xCxBxBx


	13. If You Lie Down with Dogs (Fleas Are the Least of Your Fucking Concern).

 

> _PRELIMINARY INCIDENT REPORT:  
>  RIVERS OUTPOST (SOUTH-WESTERN REGION)_
> 
> _June 26, 1915_
> 
> _The following report outlines the findings of the investigation of the Rivers Outpost, the effects on its men and structures, and the proposed actions to be taken as a result of the attack._
> 
> _1.1 SUMMARY OF THE INVESTIGATION_
> 
> _The investigation took place between June 18, 1915, and June 25, 1915. It was headed by Major Edward Elric (Fullmetal Alchemist, Battle-Grade); the major was accompanied by First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, Second Lieutenant Bryan Caddock, and their respective platoons._
> 
> _Methods of investigation include a visual inspection of the outpost and its outlying areas, as well as a detailed collection of evidence. All evidence was analysed by alchemical means by Major Elric. (For maps and details of collected evidence, see full report.)_
> 
> _2.1 RESULTS_
> 
> _2.2 Soldiers at Rivers Outpost_
> 
> _Multiple piles of remains in the form of charred bone were found at the site; no survivors were found during the investigation, nor were there any indications that survivors might have escaped and fled to the outlying area._
> 
> _2.3 Structures at Rivers Outpost_
> 
> _Many of the structures experienced heavy artillery fire during the attack. Two buildings—Storage Shed 4 and the outpost’s Headquarters—have been destroyed entirely._
> 
> _The perimeter wall underwent heavy bombardment, as evidenced by significant damage to and charring of its exterior. It has been breached in three places:_
> 
>   * _Midway along the northern wall, a one-meter-wide gap was found;_
>   * _Near its south-eastern corner, a two-meter-wide gap was created to grant Lieutenant Caddock’s platoon access to the outpost; and_
>   * _Significant portions of the western wall have been destroyed, the resulting breach measuring a total of approximately 18 meters_
> 

> 
> _3.1 PROPOSED ACTION_
> 
> _3.2 Soldiers at Rivers Outpost_
> 
> _Given the testimony of Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc, who escaped with a squad of men during the initial attack, as well as the evidence collected during the investigation, it is not expected that any survivors exist._
> 
> _It is suggested that all 4,187 soldiers present at the Rivers Outpost during its time of attack be considered KILLED IN ACTION._
> 
> _3.3 Structures at Rivers Outpost_
> 
> _Many buildings within the outpost are damaged to a degree that they are no longer considered structurally sound, or they are destroyed altogether._
> 
> _Given the amount of work that would be required to make the outpost operational again, when combined with the additional information that Aerugonian forces clearly are aware of the outpost’s location, it is suggested that the Rivers Outpost be considered ABANDONED. A new location should be found and a new outpost be constructed to replace it._

— Filed by First Lieutenant R Hawkeye, signed by Major E Elric, submitted to the South-Western Passage Command, June 27, 1915.

 

* * *

 

 

It was early morning, just as grey dawn lit the tops of trees, when one of the Aerugonians made his first attempt to escape.  Somehow—Edward didn’t know quite how, but he was sure he’d find out later—the man had loosened the bindings around his wrists and made a run for it. Two of the cooks, already in their rough-and-tumble kitchen, noticed the beige-clad soldier sprinting through the camp and tackled the man to the ground. The soldier received a few bruises and a dislocated arm in the process, so the medics gave him a quick once-over and declared him none the worse for wear.

Edward nodded as Hawkeye relayed this information to him around one of the empty fire pits, his eyes more focused on the plate of food balanced on his knees than the blonde lieutenant seated to his left. “Good,” he mumbled into his cup of truly shitty coffee, then made a face when it scalded his tongue.

A single eyebrow flew toward her hairline. “Good?” She repeated. “Edw—Major Elric, if one of them manages to escape us and return to their own forces, the Aerugonians will know precisely where our surveillance outpost is.”

“So we’ll just make sure they don’t escape,” he told her. A forkful of tinned meat was raised to his lips.

“I’ll double the security detail around them then—”

Edward swallowed the eggs and shook his head. “No. Or else they’ll think we’re worried.”

The deep breath she took might have been a calming one. He didn’t know. “If nothing is done, then one of them _will_ try again.”

“I know.” Then, with a glance toward her own untouched food, he added, “you know, Lieutenant, you really should eat. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

The glare she sent his way was impressive. Equally impressive was her ability to wolf down her breakfast before he had polished off his own plate. “I’m going to prepare two platoons,” she told him, her voice razor sharp, “to accompany us to the Rivers Outpost. Please make sure you’re ready to leave the camp in fifteen minutes.”

She marched off without another word.

He grinned and took a sip of his coffee, then bit back a string of curses as the damned stuff burned his tongue again.

 

* * *

 

Fifteen minutes later, and after a litany of truly creative expletives passed his lips, he was guiding his warhorse down steep, wooded banks. Hawkeye, shoulders tight and eyes sharp, was riding to his right. Caddock and Renault were talking amicably behind them. The occasional bird song trilled above their heads and once or twice a wagtail flashed its yellow wings as it fluttered between tree trunks. It wasn’t long before the ground evened out and they were splashing across the Tevere’s shallow riverbed.

“I want to take a look at where the Aerugonians set up their heavy artillery before I look at the outpost,” he said as Peony stepped back onto dry land. He turned in his saddle, faced the dark-haired second lieutenant. “You take the men to the outpost and have them start documenting things. If they see anything interesting, make sure that they mark down where they found it _before_ they pick it up. And,” he added as an afterthought, “have them wrap everything in separate pieces of canvas or something. I don’t want different pieces touching.”

“Never knew you to be so neurotic, Major,” Caddock quipped in response. “Should I tell the General about your sudden need for organization? I’m sure he’d be happy if his paperwork got cleaned up.”

Renault barked out a sharp laugh. Edward and Mustang’s opinions of the other had been one of the first stories to churn about the Command’s rumour mill.

Edward sent the man his best “shut the fuck up before I transmute your boots to your stirrups” glare. Caddock just joined Renault in laughing like an idiot.

“If the samples touch before I get a chance to analyze them,” he ground out as their guffaws finally died down, “they’ll contaminate each other. And if _that_ happens, Caddock, you’re the one I’m going after.”

“If it’s all the same, sir, I’d rather not be strung and quartered.”

“Then do your fucking job properly.”

Once Caddock offered a sloppy salute in acknowledgement, Edward turned to a silent Hawkeye. “If you don’t mind, Lieutenant,” he added, “I’d like for you to come with me.”

“Of course, sir.” She didn’t turn to look at him.

They lapsed into silence, guiding the horses through thick golden grasses reaching as high as the animals’ gaskins. The stalks brushed against his ankles and whispered against the rough wool of his royal blue trousers, dusted the worn down toes of his heavy boots. A light wind rippled across the plain, keeping it from getting too warm.

They crested a rise and caught sight of the old outpost for the first time since spying it from their camp that morning, of the monstrous wall that bowed inward like a prison, of the dead and trampled grasses that surrounded it all. Caddock and Renault’s lighthearted banter died away, as did the murmur of the foot soldiers’ conversations. Edward’s shoulders tightened and he swallowed around a parched tongue.

“We’ll meet up with you at Rivers in a few hours, Caddock,” he said, voice rough. At least it wasn’t shaking.

Then his eyes found Hawkeye once more. With her nod, they split away from the group of sixty-odd soldiers, pointed their horses south. Caddock’s voice pitched up and then filtered away behind them.

The tall stalks whispered against their boots and ankles, or else played with the wind, and silence stretched out before them as surely as the gently rolling hills. The hairs at the back of his neck stood on end, and his eyes wandered across the plain, scanning for any movement—a group of beige-clad soldiers could easily hide themselves in the tall grasses, and they’d already found one set of lookouts, after all. Hawkeye, too, was stiff in the saddle, her own eyes catching the flick of Peony’s ear before glancing away again.

Neither could look at the old outpost.

The silence stretched between them, a fine strand of silk blowing in the gentle wind. Finally, it broke. Hawkeye spoke up, voice cool in the summer heat, hands tight on the reins and eyes still roaming. “I expected that, if you wanted to survey the area around the outpost, you would have asked Lieutenant Caddock to accompany you.”

There was something not being said there. He knew it, sorted the words through his head, then gave up. “You worked with Mustang, so you know what alchemy looks like. Caddock doesn’t. Besides,” he added, “you’re pissed and I want to know why.”

The wind rippled across the golden fields around them. In the distance, there was a rumble as Caddock and the men drilled a hole into the wall’s southern face. Stupid Peony tried to veer away from the noise, swinging his head to the right, and Edward yarded on the reins until the animal corrected course. It wasn’t until the young Major glanced over to his lieutenant that the woman answered.

Her words came slowly, and she looked everywhere except for his eyes. “I’ve… been in wars before, Edward,” she finally told him, “and you haven’t. You’re still mad about what happened with the Aerugonians, and I understand that, but disregarding my suggestions about the prisoners we have now isn’t going to bring those men and women back. All it will do is put the soldiers following you at greater risk.”

He blinked. “This is about the guy who tried to escape this morning, isn’t it?”

“All three of those soldiers pose an increased risk to the camp. The fact that one of them has already tried to escape once doesn’t bode well, and the fact that you refuse to do anything to ensure that it doesn’t happen again is… short-sighted.” At least she was looking at him now, but her eyes were hard, daring him to disagree. It was a look he’d seen on her face before, during the rare instances when she had to challenge the stupid Bastard General’s orders.

He almost barked out a mirthless laugh. “Yeah, but I _want_ them to try again. I’ve worked with Caddock’s men before, and the soldiers in your platoon aren’t slackers. They’ll catch anyone before they get away. It’s not that I’m not listening, Lieutenant, it’s that I want to get information out of them.”

Hawkeye paused, digested the information. “That seems like quite the gamble, and I really don’t see how—”

Without warning, Peony reared, screaming, front hooves wheeling, brushing against the thinning golden grasses. Curses cut through the air and Edward flattened himself against the horse’s back, abandoning the reins and grabbing for the saddle horn instead. What the—! The horse backpedaled, trying to keep balance. A _warhorse_ wouldn’t freak about nothing! He shifted, leaned so low that his bangs brushed the horse’s shoulder, grabbed onto the thick, corded neck, and hoped like hell that the animal wouldn’t fall.

Somehow, he noticed Hawkeye swing her rifle off her back and settle it against one shoulder. Her own steed snorted and eyed the screaming gelding.

Then finally, _finally_ the stupid horse dropped to all four hooves, still neighing and fidgeting, looking for all the world like that time Edward and Alphonse had offered to help Mr Moorcock get his prize stallion back after coyotes had gotten onto the farm and spooked the herd. A few of the old farmer’s choice words jumped from Edward’s lips as he regathered the reins and dropped from the gelding’s back.

The grasses grazed his epaulets and tickled his chin, but he dared not brush them aside. His hands were inches apart, ready to clap. “Do you see anything?”

“Negative. But with these grasses…” She didn’t have to finish that sentence. “Did a burr get under his tack? Or did he step on something? He’s not the most agreeable horse.”

“He’s a trained warhorse,” he snapped in response, but ran his flesh hand down the nearest foreleg anyway. “If he doesn’t know to keep his shit together when something pinches him, then there’s a huge problem with the military’s horse masters.” He tapped sharply against Peony’s ankle, let the horse steady himself, and pulled the hoof off the ground.

“He’s still nervous about something,” he said as he let the hoof go. He ran his hand over Peony’s flank before he carefully— _very_ carefully, because he really didn’t want to get kicked in the fucking head—began to check the animal’s hind leg. Hawkeye’s own mount fidgeted, pawing at the earth and shaking its head. “Your horse is worked up, too.”

“I’m aware of that, Edward.” Hawkeye told him, voice dry. Her eyes were still scanning their surroundings, and the butt of her rifle was still pressed against her shoulder. “Anything?”

“Not a damn thing,” he muttered, releasing the rear hoof. It sunk into the ground not far from a print left by a predator. “Not unless you think that they’d get spooked by the leftover scent from a wolf or something.”

It didn’t take long before all four hooves had been checked, and still, no insect bites, burrs, or anything else had been found. Weary, he climbed back into the saddle, gathering the reins as his lieutenant returned the rifle to its place between her shoulder blades. “Unless you have any better ideas,” he informed her, “I’m blaming leftover wolf-smell.”

She sighed, and nudged her still-nervous steed on. After some reluctance, the animal obeyed. “There aren’t any wolves in southern Amestris, Edward. Surely you know that.”

 

* * *

 

After the mishap with the horses and a far more thorough investigation than Edward had anticipated, neither he nor his lieutenant ever did get the chance to rejoin Caddock and the rest of the men. So instead, they returned to the camp on their own. Over that evening’s supper, they had the dubious privilege of listening to the others’ descriptions of the ghost town that had once been a strategic defensive station for Amestris’ southern border.

There’d been absolutely no sign of life, Caddock had begun, face aging before Edward’s eyes as the man himself pushed his food around a metal plate. No soldiers and no steeds, predictably. But the grasses around the outpost were dead and stiff, too, and not a single insect had hummed about them while they worked.  The whole place was just _wrong_.

Bones piled everywhere, one of Caddock’s sergeants piped up. Most of the horses, it looked like, had still been in their stables, and most of the soldiers had gathered at the outpost’s rally points. From the way it looked, hardly anyone had had the time to react once the Aerugonians had begun their alchemical attack. They’d all been incapacitated too fast.

There were a few breaks in the wall, too, Renault added. A hole big enough for a few men to sneak out of single file on both the perimeter wall and the enemy’s structure—probably, interrupted Hawkeye, Blacklung’s work when he’d told Havoc to bolt—and a second, much larger one to the west. The enemy had broken into the outpost after their attack. By the looks of it, they’d looted anything that could withstand the heat. All of the outpost’s heavy artillery units were missing.

When Edward crawled into his bedroll that night, he dreamt of screaming horses, melting soldiers, and wolves with men’s faces.

The days passed with pale grey tedium.

By the end of the third day, he’d confirmed that Blacklung had carried out his orders to strengthen the outpost’s perimeter walls properly; he’d found them infused with enough carbon to make them as strong as the reinforced concrete of Central’s military headquarters. Under normal circumstances, this fact—along with the information that the enemy had blown through those very same walls as though they were paper maché—would have sent an eyebrow toward his hairline. Were they able to figure out the unique make-up of the walls that easily? Or did they just brute force it?

He added the observation to his worn-down notebook and made a mental note to let Mustang know during his next check-in.

After the sun had fallen on the fourth day, a conversation with one of the enlisted men confirmed what Hawkeye had told him after the problem with the horses—there’re no wolves in this part’a Amestris, sir, and the closest thing ya might see’re big coyotes or a feral dog.

The man’s southern drawl buried itself into his thoughts that night, no matter how much he told himself that the Aerugonians must have brought hunting hounds with them.

By the end of their first week there, what he’d been waiting for finally happened.

Sometime during midmorning, after Edward had left with Caddock and Hawkeye’s platoons to do another sweep of the old outpost, the oldest of their three captives made his break. He’d picked through his thick rope bindings with a few fish bones he’d snagged from the previous evening’s meal, and had bolted while the cooks were still busy cleaning up after that morning’s breakfast. The soldier barely made it into the trees surrounding the little rough-and-tumble camp before gunshots cracked through the air.

The first shot caught him through the stomach. The second through the lungs. The third buried a hole between his eyes.

It was Second Lieutenant Stuka who met him as he dismounted from his stubborn-ass horse that evening, offering the news with a reluctant salute that barely brushed his close-cropped black hair. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want to do with the body,” he said as Hawkeye dropped from her own mare and joined him, “so we left it by the tree line.”

Edward nodded, keeping his eyes squarely on his steed’s dapple grey coat. He patted the gelding’s neck a few times—anything to keep from looking them both in the eye. “That’s fine,” he said, and a part of him was thankful that his voice was still steady. He could hate himself later. For now… “Drag it into the camp, where the two other Aerugonians can see it. Burn it.”

Stuka let out a noise that might have been a scoff. “I’ll get to it, then.”

The man left without saluting, and Hawkeye turned to him, half-blocking the sight of blue-clad soldiers bustling about. Her voice was low. “Edward, if I’m not mistaken, don’t the Aerugonians—”

“Yeah.” Something caught in his throat. He cleared it away. “They think that their bodies need to return to the earth. Cremation is considered… sacrilegious or whatever.”

Her shoulders tightened and her jaw tensed. Voices were already drifting over to them, calls for matches and firewood. The body was gathered and dragged to the centre of the camp. “This isn’t like you.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged. The faint smell of smoke curled through the air, and his stomach curled, too. “They have information. If I don’t get it, then our people are gonna die. And… and that soldier’s dead anyway, so it’s not like he gives a shit what happens.”

He pushed away from her, dragged Peony around until he found a stable hand to pass the horse off to. He didn’t meet her eyes—or Caddock’s, for that matter, since the man looked every bit of his twenty-seven years as he oversaw the preparation of the bonfire—as he ducked into his tent. Some rummaging unearthed the single package of smokes he’d planned on gambling with at some point. His next stop brought him to the mess tent. One of the cooks made a comment about showing the Aerugonians what happened when they messed with Amestris.

He ignored her words just as he ignored the other two cooks making noises of agreement. “Is the food ready for the other two yet?”

“Uh, yeah, sir, ‘course it is,” the outspoken cook told him after a quick glance to her fellow soldiers. “What do you want with it?”

“Load it up on a plate and pass it to me.” Surprised, she obeyed the order, offering him a tin plate of undercooked potatoes and half-crispy vegetables. A scoop of cold, tinned meat rounded it out. The unmistakable smell of cooking fat tickled at his nose, and he swallowed a few times before accepting the food. Rowdy laughter and crass jokes filtered out from the centre of the camp.

He straightened his shoulders and didn’t even glance at the dancing, flickering flames as he headed toward his target—at the edge of the camp, tied to a stubborn sapling, a beige-clad foot soldier ignored him, lips pulled back in a silent snarl and dark eyes burning as he watched the red-yellow flames throw soot into the twilight.

The soldier, Edward realised with a jolt to his stomach, must have been fresh out of whatever training Aerugo granted its troops. He hid it well beneath layers of dark mud and yellow bruises, but pimples still dotted his chin and his fingers shook beneath all of that wide-eyed rage.  He said nothing as the blond Amestrian sat down on the rocky ground and offered a plateful of food.

Edward could almost hear Mustang’s voice in his ear as he spoke up, pulling the full package from his trouser pockets and offering it to the enemy soldier. “Wanna smoke?”

The Aerugonian tore his gaze away from the laughing, blue-clad soldiers and the snapping bonfire, fixing his eyes on his scuffed boots instead.

Edward shrugged, drew a fag to his lips and lit it. It was disgusting, but he inhaled anyway. “I know this’ll probably sound crazy to you, but I’m not really in charge of much here. I’m just a kid, you know? They threw a major’s uniform at me ‘cause they had to, not because they actually meant for me to be in charge. The blonde bitch? The lieutenant? She makes all the calls.”

The hands tightened into fists. 

“I’m… sorry about your friend, or superior, or whatever he was.” He exhaled, blew the smoke high into the air like he’d seen Havoc do countless times. “I fought with her about it. Tried to tell her that we’re not fucking savages. She wanted to make a point—this is what happens when you start a war with Amestris. I’m going to talk to our CO once we get back, and make sure she gets reprimanded.”

Nothing.

“Look, I…” He leaned back, lowered his lids, watched the soldier between his lashes. “Call me an idiot, an idealist, tell me that I’m gonna end up getting killed on the battlefield. Whatever. But I hate all this shit, you know? As long as you keep your head down, she can’t kill you without permission from her superior—even if that superior’s a kid with major’s stripes. I… I think I can keep you alive.”

He caught the soldier glancing at him, eyes narrowed, weighing his words. Oh yeah, beneath all that anger, the Aerugonian was _terrified_. He could use that, right? “My name’s Ed. What’s yours?”

One Amestrian soldier threw a branch into the fire, making it crackle and pop. The branch caught the blackening body across the face. Edward turned away from the orange glow, tried to ignore the way his stomach tightened, and the Aerugonian beside him tensed.

“You alchemists and your equivalent changes. You give your name. So you want mine.” The words that the soldier spat at him were poisonous, clinging to his clothes and ears. “You kill one Aerugonian. Say you will keep another alive.”

When he finally brought his eyes to meet Edward’s own, they were black. The blazing fire danced within them. The muscles in his neck strained, his nostrils flared, his face transformed into a furious mask. “You think you know what is equivalent? You think you know what is fair? You know nothing, _alchemist_! Nothing!”

He lunged forward, knocking the plate of food aside, spittle flying from his lips. Edward leapt back, brought his hands together and was about to transmute when the thick ropes around the soldier’s wrists went taut. Still, the Aerugonian strained against his confines, voice pitched into a howl. “You think you will win because of your _alchemy_ and your little tricks. You know nothing at all! Our soldiers will drench the land with the blood of you whore’s sons! Our warriors will rip your pet alchemist’s _throats_! You, your lieutenants—none of you will ever leave the battlefield. When the time comes, I will laugh as _your_ body burns—!”

It was then, as three Amestrian soldiers rushed forward to subdue their prisoner, that all the pieces started to fit together. Oh. _Oh._

His eyes went wide. His ribs were too tight, his heart pounded. He turned on his heel, stomped away from the still-shrieking prisoner and the now-shouting guards. Had to get away, find somewhere private where his weak knees could collapse, where he could collect his spiralling thoughts, grind out a litany of curses that would make Havoc stare.

Shit.

When Hawkeye found him nearly twenty minutes later, he was hidden within the twisting roots of an ancient stone pine half-shielding their temporary stables. She said nothing of the sour, acrid stench in the air. “What did you find out?”

He inhaled sharply, ran a trembling hand through mussed bangs. “Everything. Get—get Mustang on the radio now. I… shit. If I’m right, there’s no way Amestris will win this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Random tid-bits of information:**
> 
>  
> 
> 1) Wagtails—A cute little forest bird native to Italy.
> 
> 2) “No wolves in southern Amestris”—Because I’m basing southern Amestris on Italy… If I was being entirely compliant to my world-building, this wouldn’t actually be true; there are indeed wolves in Italy.


End file.
